Twin Demons
by Georgia Kennedy
Summary: Peter Parker declares his undying love for Mary Jane Watson, who vows to help him confront his fear and guilt as SpiderMan joins forces with Daredevil to break up a ring of international terrorists bent on wreaking havoc all over the Big Apple.
1. Prologue: Resurrection

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**The description of the nanomeds is taken from Peter David, _Hulk__ - The Official Novelization of the Film_ (New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2003), p. 66. **

**_Elysium_, is the place in Greco-Roman mythology where heroes were conveyed after they died.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**I**

**PROLOGUE - RESURRECTION**

It was 11:30 PM, Pacific Standard Time, on a late September night. Dr. Elizabeth K. Ross, Research Professor of Cellular Biophysics at the University of California School of Medicine and Project Director at the Berkeley Nuclear Biotechnology Institute, was putting in another late night at her laboratory. Or rather, what remained of it. Work was the only thing that could keep her mind off the tragic events that occurred three months before.

Betty Ross, the daughter of General Thaddeus, "Thunderbolt" Ross, was a beautiful, brilliant woman who'd attained the rank of full professor by the time she was twenty-seven. With her collaborator and former lover, Dr. Bruce Banner, she co-pioneered the science of cellular regeneration, a field whose promise stretched far beyond the horizon. Their initial project, the creation of molecule-sized robots called "nanomeds," was supposed to have been the first in a long line of applications that would revolutionize medicine and health care.

Although the theory behind the nanomeds was extraordinarily complex, the basic concept was simple. The nanomeds would be absorbed into the body and activated by gamma radiation. Once awakened, they would accelerate production of healthy cells and elimination of damaged ones. Injured or diseased tissues could heal within hours, making it possible to cure an enormous range of debilitating conditions, including spinal cord injuries, AIDS, and cancer.

The nanomeds worked . . .too well. A freak lab accident exposed Dr. Banner to a lethal dose of gamma radiation. But because his body had absorbed a huge number of nanomeds, the rays didn't kill him. Instead, they'd unleashed the dark side of his tortured psyche, turning him into a green-skinned monster whose rage fueled his growth. In his transformed state, Dr. Banner had destroyed the lab and had gone on a cross-country rampage that ended in a gigantic explosion at Snider Lake. No one, not even the Hulk, as Banner came to be called, could possibly have survived the equivalent of ten thermonuclear detonations.

The nanomeds might have also been lost with Bruce Banner if were it not for Betty Ross. At first, she was inclined to abandon the nanomed project as a failure. But she soon realized that if the gamma rays were administered in limited doses and under the strict supervision of qualified physicians, the nanomeds might well work as they were originally intended. The work would go on, she vowed. It was the only way she could keep Dr. Banner's memory alive.

Betty Ross could not help being passionately drawn to emotionally distant men, men who were psychologically incapable of reciprocating what she had to offer. She still loved Bruce, years after their relationship ended, even though she knew that he could never return her love. His father, a demented genius, had experimented on Bruce from the time he was a baby, and had all but snuffed out that vital spark of humanity that was still faintly visible whenever she looked Bruce in the eye. _It was not his fault_, she told herself again and again. _He never asked for what happened to him_. Tears would spring up behind her eyes every time she thought of Bruce.

For the last three months, she had been putting in twenty-hour days, repairing, restoring, and replacing the equipment and facilities that the Hulk had destroyed on the night of its birth. Over the objections of her father and most of the U.S. National Security establishment, but with the backing of the president's science advisors, she'd managed to put all of the research and experimental data pertaining to the nanomeds into the public domain, so that the world's most gifted minds could take this information and run with it.

Minds like Peter Parker's for instance. As Dr. Ross was going through a pile of ruined papers to see what could be salvaged, she found a copy of a term paper that the young man had sent to her over the Internet about a year and half ago. Mr. Parker had written it for an advanced placement class at his high school in Queens, New York. The paper, entitled: _Nanomedical Technology In Cellular Regeneration_, was a crystal-clear explanation of the theory behind the nanomeds. Both she and Bruce were floored by the intellect that produced that paper — with almost no prior exposure to the subject, the boy had grasped the incredibly complex challenges presented by cellular regeneration and had offered original insights as to how the nanomeds could be refined. They were so enamored of Peter that they used their clout to get him into their alma mater, Stanford. Unfortunately, a family tragedy kept Peter from accepting Stanford's offer of admission and he went to New York University instead. Betty knew Curtis Connors, the chairman of NYU's biological sciences department. She hoped that Curt would take Mr. Parker under his wing and help the young man reach his full potential.

Dr. Ross was still reading Peter's paper when she was suddenly startled by the ringing of her cell phone. The call was from Columbia University Hospital in New York City.

She flipped her phone open. "Hello," she answered tersely. She was not expecting a call this late at night.

"Dr. Ross?" asked a male voice that she did not immediately recognize.

"Speaking," she responded crisply, sensing right away that the call was important.

"This is Dr. Paul Franks, Chief of Emergency Medical Services at Columbia University Hospital. I attended your presentation at the Hoover Biotech Conference last year. . ."

"Oh yes, I remember you," she said as she warmly recalled one of her more well-received presentations.

"I'm sorry to disturb you at this late hour doctor, but a trauma victim was just brought in who just might be your first test case. We need you to help guide us through the process of administering the nanomeds. I would like to put you on conference call with the trauma room."

_Wow_, she thought, excitedly,_ the seeds are already beginning to bear fruit._ Columbia was the premier biomedical institution in the world. Unlike many east coast universities, it did not suffer from the "not invented here," syndrome. Their researchers eagerly sought out and embraced promising new concepts without regard to geography. It amazed her how fast they were able to get the nanomed apparatus up and running.

"Vital signs?" Dr. Ross asked. " The nanomeds won't work if the heart is stopped too long."

"Just barely." Dr. Franks replied, somewhat anxiously. " She apparently suffered stab wounds to the throat and abdomen. Exit wound in the back. She went into cardiac arrest, but the rescuer was able to cover the wounds and restore her heartbeat and respiration. There's not much time."

"Alright! Get DNA samples and blood type ASAP so that the nanomeds can be properly calibrated. Prep the gamma cannon while you're doing that." She paused for a moment, and then, mindful of Dr. Banner's accident, emphatically delivered a caution. "Remember, don't use any more gamma rays beyond what is necessary to activate the nanomeds."

She hesitated, going back over what she though Dr. Franks had told her. "What did you mean, 'cover the wounds?'"

"He applied some sort of glob or coagulating fluid to the wounds to stop the bleeding. I think it's his webbing."

"His what?" Dr. Ross asked, extremely confused. "Did you say webbing? I don't understand. Who rescued her?"

"Spider-Man."

"Who?"

"You obviously don't read the New York papers, Dr. Ross." a bemused Dr. Franks gently chided. "I'll tell you all about it once we get through this. I know it's very short notice, but we're pretty confident that it'll work this time, and we would like you to fly out here as soon as you can to verify the results for us."

"Okay. I'll book the first flight out of San Francisco once the operation is over. In the meantime, follow my instructions to the letter."

"Yes Doctor. Thank you. I'm going to put you through to the emergency room now."

Myriad thoughts and emotions threaded in and out of Betty Ross's mind as she waited for the connection. Above everything else, she hoped that the people at Columbia could succeed where her group did not . . . balancing the production of healthy cells with the elimination of destroyed ones. If they did, the last remaining obstacle to widespread use of the nanomeds will have been removed.

But Betty Ross's scientific curiosity had been triggered by this talk of a Spider-Man. _A man who spins webs?_ Betty thought excitedly. _Is such a thing even possible? _Dr. Franks's brief description implied some kind of inter-species genetic fusion. But such research was universally condemned as unethical and banned in almost every country. She wondered if Spider-Man, like Bruce Banner, had been the victim of an experiment gone terribly wrong. Even so, the implications of _Homo Arachnis_ would be staggering.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Spider-Man had been routinely patrolling the city when his spider-sense had alerted him to a disturbance in Hell's Kitchen. He did not visit this part of the city often — it was Daredevil's territory after all, and for the most part, it was clean. But as he swung by one particular rooftop, his highly refined precognition alerted him to someone's rapidly fading life signs. Cautious, but ready for combat, Spider-Man moved in to investigate.

He was just in time. The woman who lay on the rooftop was nearly dead. Dressed in some tight-fitting, black leather combat outfit, she was in cardiac arrest, bleeding profusely from her right hand, abdomen, and neck. She had apparently been involved in a knife fight, and had come up on the losing end. There was blood all over the place. The other combatants had apparently fled. He did not have time to go after them. His immediate priority was to save this woman's life.

It would prove to be the most difficult rescue operation that Spider-Man had ever undertaken—transporting an unconscious stabbing victim from Hell's Kitchen to Columbia University Hospital, nearly eighty city blocks away. There were other hospitals that were closer, but he knew Columbia's reputation as the premier trauma center in New York. Given how grave the victim's condition was, he would have to get her there if she was to have any chance of pulling through.

Peter Parker thanked God he had enough sense to get certified in basic first aid. He had also discovered that his web fluid made quite an effective bandage. So the first thing he did was to shoot wads of webbing over the wounds in an effort to stop the hemorrhaging. Then he lifted his mask. _Come on, Lady_, he said anxiously to himself, _Hang in there . . . you're gonna be just fine_.Watching his beloved uncle Ben die right in front of him had, more than anything else, instilled in him a profound understanding of the preciousness of life. He would do everything he possibly could to keep this beautiful lady ninja from slipping away. He gave the woman mouth-to-mouth and applied cardiopulmonary resuscitation. As far as he could tell, there was no internal bleeding.

A police chopper had been hovering over the scene when he arrived. Knowing he had to work fast, Spider-Man leaped up and into the chopper's cabin through its open door.

"You guys have a defillibrator and backboard?" he asked.

The officers quickly handed him what he asked for. Working faster than the officers could see, he fastened the board to the helicopter struts. Then he carefully lifted the unconscious female warrior onto the board and webbed her into place so as to immobilize her. Finally, he mounted the defillibrator to the bottom of the chopper so that it would not shake if he had to use it.

When all was ready, Spider-Man ordered the officers, "Columbia Hospital. Now!"

The chopper lifted upward, with Spider-Man, the defillibrator, and the woman on the board all hanging beneath. The pilot alerted the emergency room staff that they were bringing in a stabbing victim. For the first time, he got a good look at the victim's face. She was beautiful, but not in the way that Mary Jane was. There was an athleticism and muscularity to this woman's looks, which reminded Spider-Man of those gorgeous female Olympians he admired. _She must be a real ass-kicker_, Spider-Man thought, wondering if she meant as much to someone as M.J. meant to him.

They made the eighty-block trip in a little over five minutes, with Spider-Man constantly monitoring the victim, ready to act if she slipped back into cardiac arrest. When they arrived at Columbia, the staff was waiting. Spider-Man tore away the webbing supports so that the woman could be safely transferred to a stretcher. After describing what he saw to the doctors, and removing the web bandages at their direction, he flew off into the night, confident that the medical staff of New York's finest hospital would do its job, and that he would nail the animal that did this.

But the search for the perpetrator proved fruitless. After an hour or so, he called it a night and returned to his shabby, one-room Greenwich Village apartment, and his life as a sophomore at N.Y.U. The first round of examinations was coming up in a few weeks, and he would have to study for at least two hours before he could go to sleep. Fortunately, the adrenalin that his body generated during his nightly sojourns spared him from having to drink coffee in order to remain awake. _Never any rest for the weary_, he sighed as he cracked open a book entitled, Elementary Quantum Mechanics – Fourth Edition.

He had absolutely no inkling that the woman whose life he'd saved that night was worth over seventeen billion dollars.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Twelve hours after she was brought into the hospital, the woman opened her eyes. Her surroundings slowly came into focus — she was in what looked like a recovery room. The sunlight streaming through the partially opened blinds caused her to squint.

The last thing she remembered was the battle with Bullseye, Daredevil, and the agonizing stab wounds she suffered, the pain worsened by her humiliating defeat at the hands ofher father's killer, and her realization that she had wrongfully accused Matt Murdock of the crime.

But she was puzzled by the fact that she felt no pain at all. If she were still alive, she should have at least felt discomfort from the sutures. She looked at the hand which had been pierced clean through by her own sai — it appeared completely normal. She reached up to her throat, to where her jugular vein had been sliced open by Bullseye's playing card. Nothing, no scars, no stitches. Bewildered, she pulled up her hospital gown and struggled in vain to find the wound on her abdomen. It wasn't there. She pinched herself to make sure that she wasn't in Elysium. It slowly dawned on her that she had been saved through some sort of advanced medical technology that had somehow sped up her healing.

She pressed the buzzer just as a young, dark-skinned nurse appeared by her bedside. She had a warm smile and a pleasant demeanor.

"Good Morning Miss . . ." The nurse glanced at her patient's ID bracelet. "Natchios. How are we feeling today?" Her accent identified her as Jamaican.

"Could be worse," the patient replied, slowly, still trying to get her bearings. "Can you please tell me where I am and how I got here?"

"You're at Columbia University Medical Center," the nurse replied as she recorded the time that the patient awoke. "You were brought in and treated for stab wounds in the emergency services wing. The doctors will be in later to evaluate you, but quite frankly, your recovery was nothing short of miraculous."

"Who brought me in?" the patient asked eagerly, hoping that it had been Matt Murdock.

"Spider-Man," replied the nurse.

She blinked, not sure that she'd heard the nurse correctly. "Who?"

"Ma'am," the nurse said, slightly amused at her patient's ignorance, "you're obviously not from New York."


	2. Dear John

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**Special thanks go to Betty Brant for her fabulous story, _Memories and Revelations_, which inspired the "Dear John" letter and the third section of this chapter.**

**The conversation between Peter and Mary Jane outside the Lyric Theater is taken verbatim from: Peter David, _Spider-Man 2 - The Official Novelization of the Film_ (New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2004), p. 198. **

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**II**

**DEAR JOHN**

John Jameson knew that something was terribly wrong when _Here Comes the Bride_ piped through the church, but Mary Jane Watson, his bride, was nowhere to be seen. A number of guests near the aisle were already starting to shift nervously in their seats. The groom's father, as impatient and uptight as ever, was nudging Louise Wood, the maid of honor, to go back and get the bride moving. She discreetly slipped out of the sanctuary and returned to the bridal chamber where she'd left Mary Jane with her mother, Madeline Watson.

Louise was already sensing that things weren't going according to the script. "Mary Jane?" she called out as she stuck her head into the doorway of the bridal chamber.

"She's gone, Louise," answered Mrs. Watson as she handed the maid of honor a sealed envelope. "She left a few minutes ago. Would you mind giving this to John, please?"

A gentleman in a rumpled suit was standing near Madeline, silently looking out the window. It was Mary Jane's father, Phil. He was watching his daughter sprint through the park across the street and hail a taxi. Madeline came over to join him, just in time to see Mary Jane climb into the cab and ride off . . . to find her destiny.

Louise, her heart in her mouth over what she had to do, hurried back into the sanctuary and walked straight up to the groom, watching his face fall as she handed him the envelope. The first thing John saw when he opened it was the five-carat diamond engagement ring he'd presented to M.J. the morning after he'd proposed. There was also a note. He could tell from the sloppiness of the script that it had been written in haste.

_Dear John_, the note began. Well, didn't letters like this always begin with "Dear John?" he thought acidly. _There is never any easy way to say this, but over the past few weeks, I've come to realize that it can't work out for us. There is somebody who really needs me. I tried to make myself believe that I had gotten beyond this person, but the truth is that I haven't, and I don't think I ever will. Believe me, I am so sorry that it came to this. You're the last one in the world I'd ever want to hurt and I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me. You are such a sweet, wonderful, caring, loving man, and I know that you will make some lucky woman a terrific husband. Always, Mary Jane_.

He had to give Mary Jane credit. She'd done the best she could to take the sting out of the awful blow she'd just delivered. She didn't use the words, but her meaning could not have been clearer. She was in love with somebody else, and had been in denial about it the entire time they were together. Intellectually, John felt vindicated that his suspicions had turned out to be correct. Emotionally, he was devastated. His entire sense of self-worth had taken a direct hit, and in that terrible moment, he felt nothing but anger, hurt, and despair.

Louise saw the expression on John's face darken as he read the note. She felt tremendous pangs of guilt, knowing that she had helped bring about this sad turn of events by the advice she'd been giving Mary Jane throughout her engagement. He was such a nice guy, a real class act who didn't deserve to be dumped so unceremoniously. For an instant, she was afraid that John would break down right there, or worse, blow his stack just like his old man.

But Jameson the younger was cut from a different block than Jameson the elder. He did not react to stressful circumstances like his father did. Emotional outbursts were unthinkable to him. He would deal with this situation the same way he dealt with every problem that came his way. He would gather his wits and calmly examine it from all angles, analyze it, and dissect it, over and over again, until he came up with an answer that could give him closure.

Looking back over the last few months, John realized that the warning signs were popping up from the moment he'd asked Mary Jane to marry him. The whole time, Mary Jane seemed to be _playing the role _of a bride-to-be, rather than actually _being_ one. Even when he proposed to her, the way she'd said yes left him with the impression that she was trying to get over someone else. And then there was one night, a few weeks after their engagement at the planetarium, when she'd taken a taxi home after a performance that she was not particularly happy about. They'd had a take-out Chinese dinner in her apartment. She had this confused, distant look in her eyes. He tried to find out what was the matter, but she told him that she did not want to go there and that it would be best if he dropped it.

There was another warning sign, one which should have been obvious. Not once during their time together did they ever make love. Sure, there had been some serious kissing, but she had never let him see her in a state of nature. At the time, he'd attributed this fact to Mary Jane being an old-fashioned Irish Catholic who wanted to wait until she was married before engaging in sexual intercourse. Now, he realized that it was much more than that.

Things had really started to unravel after Mary Jane had been rescued from Doc Ock. John had ridden in the ambulance with M.J. to the hospital and had driven her home in his SUV after she'd been released. She said nothing during the entire ride. All she did was watch passing traffic. He vividly recalled the conversation that they'd had just before he dropped her off:

"_We're here M.J. Do you want me to take you up?"_

"_No honey, I'm really tired. I just want to go upstairs and get some sleep. Hey, I'll catch you for dinner right after the show tomorrow, all right?"_

"_You sure you don't want to take it easy tomorrow and skip the show?" _

"_No. I just want to get back into my routine, that's all. . . Gotta pay the rent."_

"_Good night M.J., I love you." _

She did not respond. She just turned around and walked through the revolving door without so much as a backward glance. He had never seen her so out of it.

They never went to dinner the next night. Mary Jane was so exhausted after her performance that all she wanted to do was to go home and go to sleep.

Although M.J. was lively and engaging throughout the pre-wedding society receptions and the rehearsal dinner, she turned listless and lethargic whenever they were alone together. John would often find her gazing out a window, like a caged bird who longed to fly free. Every time he asked her if she was okay, she would tell him yes. But in his gut, he knew that things weren't right. And everyone else, including his parents, was too caught up in the wedding preparations to notice anything amiss.

John's train of thought was interrupted by his father. "What's going on here, dammit?" Jonah Jameson growled, "Where the hell is she?" Without a word, John handed Mary Jane's note to him. He took one look at it and crushed in his hands as his face turned beet red and the veins in his neck started bulging out. The next minute, he started screaming bloody murder, raving against Mary Jane, calling her "gutless," and all sorts of other things that should have been unmentionable in a church. "That back stabber will never find work in this town again, I swear it!" Jonah bellowed.

Pandemonium broke out all over the place. Society columnists from the city's other major papers and the T.V. networks were having a field day reporting on Jonah's tirade. John tried in vain to explain the situation and calm the place down, but he was getting nowhere. He tried to make a point about the need to abort a risky mission, but it was lost on most of the assemblage.

Although he'd somehow managed to momentarily quiet the crowd, the brief silence that hung over the sanctuary was shattered by Jonah Jameson's vow to make life miserable for whoever it was that had the gall to steal Mary Jane from his son, the true American hero. But John Jameson had just about enough. His relationship with Mary Jane was over. It had been over for weeks. What good would it do to disrupt her life? All of his father's ranting and raving would not change her feelings — it would not bring her back to the altar. It would only create more bitterness and resentment. He once heard it said that if you truly loved someone, you'd let her go if that was what she really wanted. And he did love her, there was no question about that. He was determined to do right by her even if it meant slapping his father down in public.

"Dad," John said in the sternest, iciest voice he could command, "you will do no such thing. You will forgive and you will forget, as I am doing. If you so much as write one bad review about Mary Jane, or interfere with her career in any way, or even _think_ about bothering her or her significant other in any way, shape or form, I will walk out of your life and not come back, ever. Not even for your funeral. It will be as if we never knew each other. Do I make myself clear?"

Jonah's tongue froze in his mouth. His son had never threatened him like this before, much less in public. There was something in John's expression and tone of voice that told his father that he was serious, that he would do it without hesitating. His mother nodded in approval. Being an ambitious society woman who was always obsessed with appearances, Joan Jameson was internally dying of embarrassment over what Mary Jane had done. But she welcomed her son's attempts to restore order and shut her loudmouthed husband up, because the last thing she wanted was to generate more fodder for the gossip columns.

"I'll only say this one more time," John continued. "It's best for everyone if M.J. and her beau, whoever that is, get on with their lives, and we'll get on with ours. Do I have your word, Dad, that you'll leave them alone?"

"Yes." Jonah was still fuming, but he kept his fury to himself. He may have been an SOB, but he'd never broken a promise to anyone, and he wasn't about to start with his own son.

John softened up his expression, "Trust me Dad, you'll see I'm right in the end."

Louise, who was standing right there, couldn't help but witness that whole exchange. Watching John spring to Mary Jane's defense, even after she had just jilted him, was deeply moving. That kind of chivalry did not exist anymore, at least not among the men that Louise had been dating. She gently nudged John's arm. "So, you doing anything later?" she asked brightly, genuinely wanting to help him get through this ordeal.

"Actually, I'm not really doing anything now, Louise," he said, admiring how beautiful and serene she looked in her black bridesmaid's dress, amid the chaos all around them. "But I do need to talk to somebody to try and get a handle on what happened. Would you mind so much if we go somewhere where I could bend your ear a little?"

"Not at all." she said sympathetically, "I'd be happy if we would."

Together, they strode toward the back of the church and out the door.

On their way out, they passed Harry Osborn, who appeared to be laughing.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Harry was in a surprisingly jovial mood as he entered the church for the wedding. He chatted and joked with the groom about M.J.'s likes and dislikes, pointing out that dinner at _Sardi's_ once in a while would cheer her up whenever she was feeling down. As the time drew closer for the ceremony to begin, he took his seat in one of the pews near the back of the church. He was genuinely happy for Mary Jane, but that feeling was overshadowed by a sense of smug satisfaction that the girl Peter Parker loved would soon be forever beyond his reach.

The processional began, signaling the gathering that it was time to get underway. The groom took his customary spot before the altar. That pompous idiot, J. Jonah Jameson, was standing nearby, glancing at his watch, as if he had more important things to do than attend his own son's wedding. One by one, bridesmaids and ushers walked down the aisle and proceeded to their customary places before the altar.

Finally, the moment everyone was waiting for was at hand. They waited for the bride to appear. And waited, and waited. The maid of honor had been dispatched to see what was wrong. A short time later, she returned, an envelope in her hand. A few people in the back began murmuring. From his pew, Harry watched the unfolding commotion, wondering what was keeping Mary Jane and getting more and more concerned as the maid of honor handed the envelope to the groom. John read the note, and then with an expression of absolute calm on his face, handed it to his father, who erupted in a rage. Within a few seconds, all hell broke loose, with J. Jonah Jameson screaming the loudest.

It had become apparent to Harry and everyone else that Mary Jane had ditched her groom at the last minute, and was probably not even in the church any more. But what could have possibly—

Harry froze, an expression of disbelief playing across his face. There was only one possible answer, and Harry was probably the only one who knew it. Mary Jane had dumped her husband-to-be for . . . _No!_ he thought, cringing, _it's not possible! It can't be!_ But there could be no other answer. She was on her way to find Peter Parker. That conniving little bastard had managed to steal his girl after all, stabbing him in the back yet again. It was somehow lost on Harry that Mary Jane was no longer "his" girl, and hadn't been for nearly two years.

He wished that, at that moment, he was not in church. He wished that was in a bar, having a drink. He really needed one to get through the wave of rage that was washing over him. He wished for his dad to appear. As if on cue, the Green Goblin's awful cackle echoed throughout the sanctuary. He turned to his left. His father was sitting there, next to him, in the pew. But Harry was the only one whose state of mind enabled him to see Norman. "_Remember your promise," _his dad admonished him._ Only by taking control can you hope to be strong. Retrieve your reputation! Restore our family honor. DESTROY PETER PARKER, BEFORE HE DESTROYS YOU_!"

And with that, Norman Osborn returned to the deep recesses of his son's tortured mind as quickly as he appeared, like a malevolent Marley's ghost. Harry looked up, wondering why people were looking at him so strangely. And then he realized why—the Green Goblin's cackle that he'd been hearing had been coming from . . . himself.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Mary Jane Watson sprinted out of the church and into the light of her newly-won freedom. As she dashed across the park and away from the church, onlookers gawked at the strange sight of a bride who appeared to be laughing as she ran the wrong way. She hailed a cab and told the cabbie her destination. The route took her onto Bleecker Street, past the 40-foot _Emma Rose _billboard with her image on it. That sign made her face visible all over the city, but there was only one man whose face she wanted to see.

All during the ride, she kept returning to the conversation she'd had with Peter the night he finally managed to catch her show. That conversation occurred around the same time that Spider-Man had dropped out of sight. It kept replaying itself in her mind, over and over again:

"_You think because you saw my play, you can talk me out of getting married?"_

"_You once told me you loved me. I let . . .things . . .get in the way before. There was something I . . .something I though I had to do. I don't have to now."_

"_You're too late."_

_Too late_. Those words struck her like a hammer blow to the gut. It was now all too painfully obvious what had transpired that night, and she would have given anything to be able to take those words back—or to have never said them in the first place. All those times he'd let her down, he'd been out saving lives, stopping crimes, and bashing hoodlums. He'd finally had enough, and had given up his Spider-Man persona so that he could get his life back and have a life with her. When he showed up at her play that night, he'd finally thrown off the oppressive emotional yoke that had burdened him for the last year and a half, and was ready for a real relationship.

But M.J. had been afraid—afraid that if she'd accepted Peter's invitation to have chow mein with him that evening, he would've found a way to breach the fortifications she'd so painstakingly constructed and force her to confront the undeniable fact that she still loved him. And that was the last thing she wanted. One good look into those passionate, pleading baby blues would've been enough to convince her to break off her engagement, leaving her vulnerable to yet another heartbreak. So she fought against her deepest desires, turning away from his gaze, resisting the overwhelming urge to take him up on his offer, and desperately searching for a taxi to take her back to her safe, reliable — and ultimately unfulfilling — relationship with John Jameson, just so she could prove to Peter exactly what he'd been missing out on.

But once M.J. learned that Peter Parker and Spider-Man were one and the same, she had nothing left to prove. Her entire rationale for becoming involved with John collapsed, like the house of cards it was. Peter had loved her all along—he'd never stopped loving her. He loved her so much that he was willing to let her go if that was what it took to keep her safe from harm. And for Mary Jane Watson, a hopeless romantic at heart, there could be no greater way for him to profess his love.

So Mary Jane did what she had to do. She could not, in good conscience, go through with that sham of a wedding. To be sure, John Jameson would've tried his best to be a good husband, and in time, she might have grown to love him, in a way. But her heart would always belong to Peter, _only_ to Peter, and nothing in the world would ever change that.

By the time the cab turned onto Carmine Street, anxiety had replaced the giddy euphoria that Mary Jane had felt when she left the church. She was under no illusions about the huge risk she was taking. Her rejection of Peter that night outside the Lyric had given his demons the opening they needed to return. And return they did . . .with a vengeance. He had resumed his one-man war on crime, and could very well tell her to go away, forget she ever knew him, and never come looking for him again. The sad irony of that outcome was not lost on her. If Peter shut her out of his life once and for all, it would only be _because he loved her!_

"Stop there!" she said, pointing to the run-down apartment building she was looking for, holding back tears.


	3. Rooftop Reverie

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Note**

**_Your Wildest Dreams_ by the Moody Blues, ********© ****1986 by Polygram Records**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**III**

**ROOFTOP REVERIE**

It was just how Mary Jane remembered it—that beautiful night in the rain-soaked alley so long ago, when she'd kissed Peter as he was hanging upside down, his mask partly off. That same intensity was back, only stronger this time. Standing on the threshold of his shabby apartment, still clad in the bridal gown in which she was to be wed to another, she melted into his embrace as the two of them momentarily became one. She felt tears of gratitude starting to well up behind her eyes. Her trust in their love had been vindicated, her faith justified. She'd laid it all on the line and he had come through for her.

Then the sirens came, followed by the sound of chopper blades.

Three squad cars and a S.W.A.T. van were barreling past Peter's window, locked in a high-speed chase. They were being tracked by two helicopters overhead. He turned reflexively toward the window, and then turned back to the beautiful red-haired actress he held in his arms. He did not say a word, but his eyes told her, _"you know I have to take care of this_."

Mary Jane gave him a warm and loving smile as she said softly, "Go get 'em, Tiger."

It took no more than a few seconds for Peter to change. He did it right there in front of Mary Jane, but he was moving so fast that she could not see anything. Just before he lowered the mask over his face, he grasped her by the shoulders and gave her a quick good-bye kiss. "Don't wait for me," he said as he jumped off his terrace and hurtled skyward.

Mary Jane watched him go, trying not to give in to the anxiety that was already tugging at her heart about what she had gotten herself into. As much as Peter loved her, she would never, _could_ never, be his number one priority. There would always be children to rescue from burning buildings, or old ladies to protect from muggers. He would have to break dates at the last minute, or disappear while they on dates. _Worse_, she thought, _we could be right in the middle of lovemaking and _. . . she didn't even want to go there.

Incessant questions kept tumbling through her mind as she continued to gaze out Peter's window. Could she accept the existence of Spider-Man as a condition of their relationship? Could she live every minute of every day knowing that he could walk out the door one morning and never come back? Would she have the strength and the fortitude to take that dreaded phone call telling her to come down to the morgue and identify his body, God forbid?

Other thoughts began to plague her as she turned from the window and looked around Peter's apartment. The place was a pigsty, a dump whose occupant who was barely hovering above the poverty line. Could she handle the plunge in lifestyle she would have to endure in order to have a life with him? And what of the repercussions that were sure to follow her departure from the wedding, _sans_ the groom? She could only imagine J. Jonah Jameson's fury at watching his son get left at the altar and being stuck with the bill. Jameson had the means, and now the motive to destroy her career and ruin her life. All it would take is one lousy review—

As Mary Jane played out these worst-case scenarios, her gaze fell upon a framed snapshot that had been sitting on Peter's night stand. She recognized it right away. There she was, posing for Peter in front of the spider display at Columbia University during that high school field trip, so long ago. The picture was on top of a torn-out piece of ordinary notebook paper on which was written: _LAST MOMENT OF INNOCENCE, by Peter Parker_. It was just a title, nothing more. She remembered that night at the planetarium, when Peter had told her lamely that he'd been reading poetry as she brushed him off. Obviously, he'd started to write a poem, but didn't get anywhere with it.

As she continued to stare at her picture and that title, she was struck by a flash of insight that can only come when one person shares a deep soul connection with another. Something must have happened to Peter not long after that photo was taken, she realized, something that had given him his Spider-powers. . . . _Of course! He was bitten by that missing superspider! That had to be it! How else could he have possibly knocked out Flash Thompson!_

Then she noticed another photo of herself, this time playing peek-a-boo. It was taped to another piece of notebook paper, on which was written a finished poem. Curious, she picked it up and read it, hearing Peter's voice in her head.

_ODE TO A MODERN-DAY FLYING DUTCHMAN  
By Peter Parker  
Dedicated to Mary Jane Jameson,  
that she may always have the happiness she deserves. _

Mary Jane winced at the notion that Peter had written this thinking she was already married.

_He squandered the gifts conferred upon him by the gods,  
Turning his back upon a fellow human being who looked to him for help,  
To worship at the altar of selfishness and vanity by chasing fame and fortune,  
Just so he could impress the girl of his dreams._

_And so it was that for the sin of failing to stop a crime when he had the chance,  
the gods condemned him to wander in eternal twilight,  
Doing penance without end_ _amidst urban canyons,  
while the lady who makes his heart sing remains forever beyond his reach._

_He is nonetheless deeply grateful,  
that the gods have seen fit to grant his one small plea for mercy:  
That the woman he loves above all others, indeed, above life itself,  
has found safety and happiness in the good captain's warm embrace_.

It was a lament over lost love so profound, so powerful, and so heartbreaking that it knocked Mary Jane off her feet—literally. She stumbled backwards and sagged onto Peter's bed, clutching the poem to her bosom. Overwhelmed, she broke down and cried, her warm tears washing away whatever was left of her mascara.

_What made Peter think that I could ever be happy without him?_ she said to herself as she wept. What she shared with Peter had been forged in the fires of the most dire circumstances imaginable. Four times, she'd come within inches of losing her life, and four times, Peter had brought her back from the brink. No . . . not four . . . five! She would've been crushed by the car that Doc Ock had thrown had it not been for Peter's ultra-fast reflexes. Not only was she alive because of him, but the only reason she had been able to chase her dream of being an actress was the inspiration he'd given her.

But for all his powers, all his heroic deeds, and all his virtues, Peter himself had suffered terribly these last eighteen months. It wasn't only fear that had kept him away from her. It was a tremendous sense of guilt as well. For reasons that Mary Jane could not even begin to fathom, Peter had consigned himself to purgatory in order to atone for some awful sin, a sin that had somehow involved her. _My God_, M.J.wept,_ what could he have possible done to make himself believe that he didn't deserve me? _Suddenly, she too felt overwhelmed by guilt, sickened by her ignorance of what had been really going on with Peter, by how she stupidly tried to use John Jameson to get back at Peter for rejecting her, and by the fallout from an affair that had obviously gotten way out of control. _Do I really deserve him after what I did?_ she asked herself bitterly.

And as Mary Jane sobbed, a transformation occurred within her. She suddenly understood, in a metaphysical sense, why Peter's secret had been revealed to her. She looked up with a new sense of determination, casting aside the anxieties, worries and doubts, that had tormented her only a few minutes earlier. She would be there for him, just as he was there for her and countless others. She would hold him in her arms and nurse him back to health when he was wounded and aching. She would comfort him in the face of incessant media attacks. She would deliver him from this hell-hole, get him through school, and give him the stability he so desperately needed. Most important of all, she would help him break the grip of those twin demons, fear and guilt, that she beheld in his mournful verses. And one day, she would have his child.

As for John, he would survive. Aborted missions were nothing new to him. He would find somebody else to share his life with, someone with whom he would be very happy. _And soon_, she hoped, _very soon_.

There was a knock on the open door. An attractive, very thin young girl was standing in the doorway holding a yellow post-it note in her hand. It was the landlord's daughter, Ursula. For an instant, she stood there, her mouth agape. Finding a bride in Peter's apartment was probably the last thing she'd expected.

"I'm . . . sorry. . ." Ursula stammered. "I . . .I have a message . . . for Peter. From Dr. Connors." She extended the note tentatively to Mary Jane, who smiled reassuringly and said, "It's okay. I'll take it." She scribbled her own message on the note and placed it over the picture taped to the Flying Dutchman poem. "Could you tell me where the phone is?" she asked Ursula, after discovering that Peter's had been disconnected. Ursula pointed to a spot around the corner from Peter's front door. She found the phone and called a cab. Then she took one last look around the apartment and closed the door, making sure that it was locked.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

In less than an hour, Spider-Man made short work of the two drug dealers that the cops were chasing. It was a bust gone bad. The suspects had taken hostages, and had demanded ten million dollars in ransom, amnesty, and safe passage out of the country. Although Peter would not find out until months later, these two had been on the FBI's top ten, and had eluded capture for months.

The police found the fugitives bound to a street light by gossamer webbing. Also stuck to the pole was a note that read: _This two for one special brought to you by your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man_. On the sidewalk nearby lay the remains of an uzi that had been broken in two. The officers looked at the wreckage, shuddering at the thought of the force it took to do that kind of damage.

By the time Peter got back to his apartment, Mary Jane was gone. That was to be expected, since he told her not to wait around. Still, he felt a twinge of disappointment that she wasn't there to greet him. Those feelings were aggravated by a throbbing pain in his right hand. Two of his knuckles had swelled up and turned purple from his having smashed the uzi. He could barely extend his fingers without it hurting. _Why can't we have better gun control laws in this country?_ he complained silently.

But his angst and discomfort would soon be forgotten. On his bed lay the love poem he had written that morning. _Oh God, she wasn't supposed to see that!_ he thought, his face reddening with embarrassment at the prospect of his deepest, darkest secrets being laid bare before her without any kind of explanation or preparation. But then he saw the yellow post-it covering Mary Jane's photo. It had two notes on it. The first was from Ursula Ditkovich telling him to call Professor Connors ASAP. The second read, _"Please, please call me and let me know you're okay. I love you. XOXOXOX M.J." _The double-please had been underlined three times.

The ecstasy that came from knowing how concerned Mary Jane was about his safety made him forget about the pain in his hand, the lax gun control laws, and any fears he might have had about revealing too much of his soul too fast. He went out into the hall, to the same phone that Mary Jane had used earlier. He picked it up and dialed Dr. Connors's phone number. _Business before pleasure_, he thought as the dial-tone kicked in.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

It took Mary Jane almost two hours to get home. Traffic had been at a virtual standstill thanks to the police chase that Peter had joined. She'd heard over the taxi's radio that it was a huge drug bust, and that Spider-Man had apprehended the criminals. _Well, Duuuuhhhhh! _she thought, rolling her eyes in annoyance at hearing the obvious.

She was back in her apartment, in the middle of a web search for recipes when her phone rang. She picked up, holding her breath in anticipation.

"Hi M.J. I'm okay," came Peter's reassuring voice over the line.

"Thank God," she exhaled, wondering how close the bullets had gotten to him this time. "Can you come over tonight Pete?" she asked hopefully. "I'd like to make dinner for the two of us."

"Tonight? Uh . . . sure. Love to. Er . . . when?" Peter responded, thrilled beyond measure at the prospect of his ultimate dream finally coming true.

"Five thirty. . . . Sure you can make it on time?"

"I'll be there," _barring any other disturbances_, he thought, hoping she understood that silent stipulation. "M.J.?"

"Yeah, Tiger."

"Are you _really_ sure you want to do this?" Peter asked seriously. "I mean . . . you just broke off your engagement. It's . . . . not too soon, is it?" He'd expected that she might want to wait at least a few days before starting another relationship.

"No," Mary Jane said firmly. "It's not too soon . . . and yes . . . I _really_ want to see you tonight, Peter." Touched by his thoughtfulness, she paused, and then added, "but thanks for being considerate enough to ask."

"No problem . . . see you at five thirty. Bye."

On the menu that evening at _Chez Emzhay_ would be chicken parmesan with sauteed vegetables. For dessert there would be a cinnamon cake. She'd just plucked these recipes from the Emeril Live website. The cake went over really well with Emeril's guests. She hoped Peter would enjoy it too. She glanced at her kitchen clock. It read 3:15. That left her a little over two hours.

She quickly put on a pair of sweats and hung the bridal dress in her closet. Then she ran downstairs and across the street to the _Safeway_ to buy the ingredients she needed. Working as fast as she could, she prepared the meal and set the table.

When she was sure everything was just right, she showered and changed into a pair of dark blue, low-cut, hip-hugging slacks and a short-sleeved tan v-necked top that left her midriff exposed. Thenshe combed her hair, put on some_ Emma Rose_, the perfume that her image was being used to promote, and took two breath mints. She did not put on a bra. Then she lay back on her living room couch and reviewed her dog-eared script from The Importance of Being Earnest while she waited for him.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

As Peter hung up the phone, he raised his fists in joyful triumph and shouted, "yyyeeeesssssss!" Fourteen years after he first fell in love with Mary Jane, he would finally be going on his first date with her. He riffled through his closet, trying to find suitable clothes for the occasion. There were none. The elation he felt suddenly turned to disgust—disgust that he had allowed himself to fall into such dire straits. And as he looked around his apartment, a transformation occurred within him. His paycheck-to-paycheck existence was no longer acceptable. Living in a moldy, rotting dump like Ditkovitch's tenement was no longer acceptable. Anything less than a 4.0 grade-point average was no longer acceptable. Not being able to afford good clothes was no longer acceptable. And allowing Mary Jane to take even one step down the economic ladder in order to be with him was most definitely unacceptable. Right now, he could not court M.J. the way Harry and John did. But with time, perseverance, hard work, and Mary Jane's love, he would finish the race of life far ahead of both of them. _And it starts right now_! he vowed.

He would need cash, and fortunately, he'd just cashed a $750 voucher from the _Daily Bugle_ for his latest batch of Spider-Man photos. As he looked at the wad of bills on his desk, he suddenly realized how stupid he had been. He was a damn good photographer with a huge portfolio, covering lots of other subjects besides Spider-Man. There was a huge market out there, easily accessible through the Internet, and there was no written or oral exclusivity agreement with the _Bugle_. Why then, had he limited himself to just one customer all this time? It made no sense. He made a mental note to discuss it with Ben Urich when they met for lunch next Wednesday.

He glanced at his watch—3:15. There was a discount men's clothing store about five blocks away, near the edge of the Village. With luck it would still be open. He hustled over to the store, taking care not to move beyond normal speed. It did not take him long to find what he wanted. Decent threads, undamaged, for less than $250.00. After two years of living on his own, Peter Parker knew how to stretch a dollar as far as it could go.

He passed a flower shop on the way home. There was an abundance of yellow carnations in the window. Without hesitating, he bought two bouquets and webbed them together when he was sure no one was watching.

While he showered and dressed, he reflected on his reversal of fortune. The game was over the minute Mary Jane had seen him without his mask on. As far as she was concerned, the firewall between his two worlds no longer existed. Maybe that was a good thing, because she would at last understand why he could never be there for her.

But on the other hand, did Mary Jane truly understand the Faustian bargain that she was about to enter into? Or, as was more likely the case, did she act on impulse, without any real thought behind her decision to walk away from what surely would have been a good life? Being with him would be like being involved with a policeman, a fireman, and a Navy SEAL all rolled into one. He would be on call 24-7, and would have to put his life on the line constantly. Not even moments of intimacy would be out-of-bounds. _But why do you have to do this?_ he asked himself, anticipating _the_ question she would surely ask and he would surely have to answer. _Because I simply cannot bear the consequences of another failure like the one that took Uncle Ben's life_. Could she understand that? Could anyone who did not live through it themselves really understand?

It suddenly dawned on him that having Mary Jane around would open up a whole new range of safety and security issues that he never had to worry about before. He could not be with her all the time, and his list of enemies was getting longer by the day. The most recent addition to that list, tragically, was Harry Osborn. Harry . . . his one-time best friend and . . ._My God, I forgot about Harry. He knows_! Being as wealthy as he was, Harry had almost limitless resources to wreak havoc on their lives. Who knew what he would do or where he would strike? He could have Mary Jane kidnaped, or worse, he was now in a position to publicly expose Peter and make M.J. a target for _all_ his enemies.

He was suddenly seized by an impulse to call it off with Mary Jane before things got too hot and heavy. If anything ever happened to her because of what he did or didn't do, it would utterly and completely destroy him.

But he beat back that impulse, not wanting to give God any incentive to take Mary Jane away from him again. He remembered the words she'd used when she showed up on his doorstep—"_respect me enough to let me make my own decision._" Fine! He would do that. But he would give her the straight dope as much as he could, so that at least her decisions would be informed.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Unable to concentrate, Mary Jane put down her script, walked over to her living room window and peered down at the street, six stories below. For a moment, she wondered if she should leave the window open, but then realized that Peter wouldn't be so foolish as to crawl into someone's window while it was still daylight.

There was one other thing that she needed to do. She took an _Apri_, washing it down with a tall glass of milk to prevent cramping. Not wanting to get pregnant on what was supposed to have been her wedding night, she had been on birth control pills for over a month. Now that she'd broken her engagement to John, she had no idea what would happen with Peter that night. Technically, this was only a first date. But they had been dancing around each other for the last two years when they should have been dating. They were deeply in love, and if that love were to manifest itself physically, she would not want a condom or a diaphragm getting in the way. So she continued to take the pills regularly.

Mary Jane heard her doorbell ring at precisely 5:30. She felt a thrill of anticipation rising in her throat. _Right on time, for once_.

"Who is it?" she called out.

"Johnny Cash,"Peter's voice answered from the other side of the door, in an affected southern drawl. She opened the door as her heart skipped multiple beats. Peter stood there, dressed completely in black—a black leather jacket, black collarless button-down shirt, black slacks, and shiny black shoes. For a split second, she did not recognize him. He presented a much different appearance than when she had seen him earlier in the day. He looked taller and his big blue eyes shone like newly polished gold coins. His hair was different too. He had combed his bangs lower across his brow in a way that actually made him looked cool, and much more handsome. _My handsome, mysterious man in black_, mused Mary Jane happily, thinking he looked more like one of those dashing Soviet spies from the 1960s than the late, great country-western star.

Still, the metamorphosis utterly amazed her. This was the Peter Parker that she had always sensed was there, hidden under the camouflage of a geeky little caterpillar. The caterpillar had finally given way tothe butterfly, revealing his soul in all its glory.

He was holding a huge bouquet of yellow carnations, her favorite flower, in his left hand. The stems of the flowers were bundled together by a micro-thin gossamer strand. _He must have blown a small fortune to get himself spiffed up for the occasion_, she thought in amazement.

She flew into his arms and planted a kiss firmly on his lips. She would have surely crushed the flowers had he not moved them out of the way at the last second. Then she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him, her emotions again welling up.

"Oh, Peter," she said, gazing into his eyes and struggling to keep her voice from breaking. "That poem you wrote. It was so . . .so . . . beautiful. . . . so haunting. And the flowers . . . you really didn't have to."

"Okay, I'll take them back," he teased.

"Oh no you won't!" She put the flowers in a vase and set it in the center of her immaculate dining room table, in between twin candles, as yet unlit. Two places had been set. She could not drink wine because of the contraceptive, so she set a bottle of sparkling cider on the table instead. Pleasant aromas from the kitchen filled the apartment.

She then noticed the bruises on his knuckles. "You okay, Tiger?" she asked, taking his injured hand in hers and stroking it gently, obviously concerned.

"Yeah, fine," he said, even as he winced slightly from the pain he was still feeling. "You know, the funny thing about hostage-takers is that they always ask for things they know they won't get. I suppose it makes my job a little more interesting." Reticent about discussing the matter any further, he quickly changed the subject. "This is really something M.J.," he said, marveling at the effort that she put into making everything just right.

"All for you sweetie," she said, flashing her brightest, most extraordinary smile at him. It was same dazzling smile that he saw in his camera lens on the night of her ill-fated engagement, the smile that told its object that he was her chosen one. That smile was for someone else back then. Now it was for him, and him alone.

Dinner was absolutely delightful, and the shadows created by the candlelight and the early evening sun added to the ambiance. They talked, laughed, and gazed into each other's eyes. Peter was savoring every minute with Mary Jane as much as the taste of her cinnamon cake. He was amazed that even a turn of his head in a certain way could elicit a giggle from her. Even their mundane small talk and banter touched his soul . . . and hers as well. It was the most enjoyable evening that either of them had in a long, long time.

"That was fantastic M.J.!" he said enthusiastically as he was finishing the last bite, "my first decent meal in weeks."

"What's the matter, Tiger, don't they feed you in college?" she quipped, her sweet, musical laugh filling his ears as she cleared the table.

"College food's lousy. Lately, I've been eating whatever I could catch in my web. Mostly flies." That really broke her up. She laughed hysterically at his deadpan delivery. She had never really seen his humorous side before, but that was because he'd always been too self-conscious around her to ever let it out.

Peter had a very special evening constitutional planned for them. "M.J.," he asked, "how would you like to go outside and watch the sunset?"

_My_, she thought excitedly, _he really is a true romantic._ "Sure, Pete," she said as her laughter subsided, "you have any place in mind?"

"The roof of the Met Life Building."

If Mary Jane had been holding a glass in her hand, she would have dropped it. "You're serious, aren't you?" she asked, stunned.

"Yeah. Great view from up there. . . ." Suddenly, his expression turned anxious.

"What is it?" she asked.

"I'm sorry, M.J. Bad idea," he replied as he silently reprimanded himself for being so insensitive. "Swinging around the city probably holds too many bad memories for you."

"Oh, no, no," she replied quickly, anxious to recapture the intimacy that was in danger of being lost and remembering the feeling of exhilaration she'd experienced as he carried her away from the Unity Festival. "To tell you the truth, I really liked that part of it. I'd love to do it again."

"You sure?" he questioned.

M.J.did not hesitate. "Yes!" she said, throwing her arms around his neck, "just don't drop me."

He grinned at her. "Guaranteed," he said. "It's getting chilly out. You'll need to put on a coat. Try and make it a dark one if you can."

She freshened up and slipped on a charcoal-colored sweater and her own black leather jacket before they left the apartment. They did not go out the window, as she half-expected. Instead, they went downstairs and walked a few blocks from her building. After checking to make sure no one was watching them, Peter motioned her into an alley. She noticed that he made no effort to put on his costume, and wondered why he wasn't wearing it.

"You're not changing?" she asked, puzzled.

"Don't have to," he said with a nonchalant smile. "Why do you think I asked you to wear dark clothes? I get around pretty quickly up there, so I doubt that anyone will see us."

That wasn't exactly what she meant. "But . . . what if . . .something . . . happens?"

"Pray that it doesn't," Peter told her. He desperately hoped that, for once, he would be able to give Mary Jane his undivided attention. "I'm afraid that insurance won't cover this trip, M.J., so I'm going to have to strap you down very tight. You don't get seasick, do you?"

"No."

"Great. Now, jump on my back and put your arms around me. . . No, no, not around my neck . . . you're strangling me. . . That's it. . .Lock your legs around mine. Put your chin on my shoulder and raise your arms. . . Good." When Mary Jane was in position, Peter fired both of his weblines at a point on the wall about twenty feet away. The lines fanned wide so that they formed a net. Peter spun around, cocooning them both in that net. Mary Jane's neck, torso, and legs were strapped tightly to Peter's body, held fast by chords strong enough to tow an aircraft carrier. Yet her arms and feet were left free to move around so that her circulation would not be cut off. Her face was almost cheek-to-cheek with his.

To make sure that her spine was immobile, he jumped a few feet off the ground and danced from side to side, spinning and weaving like a boxer. If she wasn't secured while they were aloft, any sudden change in direction at high speeds would generate a whiplash powerful enough to break her neck instantly.

"You comfortable, M.J.?"

She gave him a thumbs-up sign, making him think of his uncle Ben.

With no further warning, he jumped sixty feet into the air, caught the wall with his hands, and started climbing rapidly. To Mary Jane, it felt like being in a fast-moving express elevator. In less than a minute, they had scaled a fifty-story building. When they reached the roof, he rocketed toward the opposite edge, building momentum for take-off. She was amazed that he could run at full speed with a hundred and two pounds of redhead strapped to his back. Judging from how fast they were moving, he probably didn't even feel her weight. Suddenly, they were airborne. Peter fired a webline as he leaped off the edge of the building, and the two of them arced skyward.

Manhattan was spread out at dusk beneath them, lights ablaze. They sailed between skyscrapers at speeds no human being should have been able to achieve. They were no longer just arcing up and down, but sideways as well, their trajectory guided by centrifugal forces.

"How ya doin' M.J.?" Peter shouted, trying to make himself heard over the rush of air pounding against his ears. He refrained from aeriel acrobatics as much as he could, so that Mary Jane wouldn't suffer vertigo.

Mary Jane flashed him another thumbs-up. She was having the time of her life, soaring through Manhattan's concrete canyons at two hundred miles an hour. Just as it looked like they would smash into a building, Peter would fire a webline at the last second and they would careen off in a different direction. It was absolutely exhilarating, and, amazingly, she felt neither queasiness nor fear. But she did smile privately to herself about the fact that Peter could be such an acrobat in the sky but a klutz on the ground. _Maybe it was just an act . . . secret identity stuff_, she thought.

The initial leg of their flight path took them directly over Chinatown. Peter directed Mary Jane's attention to Lyric Theater, where her show was playing, and where she would return for next Saturday's matinee, after what was to have been her honeymoon. Before long, they were coming up on the Empire State Building. For some odd reason, the lyrics to an old Moody Blues song that she once heard on the radio kept coming to mind .

_Once beneath the stars_.

They rounded the Empire State Building and used their momentum to slingshot themselves a distance of over eight city blocks. _You can fly, you can fly_. . . _Top this, Peter Pan_, Mary Jane sang as she spread her arms like wings. Peter, meanwhile let out a triumphant "_whooooooo-hoooooooo!"_ He was definitely taking the scenic route, because they were heading toward Times Square. The Met Life Building was in the opposite direction.

_The universe was ours. _

As they hurtled past the _Daily Bugle_ building, Mary Jane shouted, "Hey Jonah, you puny purveyor of pusillanimity! Take that!" and flipped him the finger. Even if Jameson had somehow managed to hear her, she knew they would be gone by the time he turned around to look out his window. She laughed at the irony of the situation, for if Jonah everfound out that she'd jilted his son for, of all people, Spider-Man, it would _really _send him over the edge. Of course, she still felt terrible about John. And she still worried about reprisals. But that aside, she relished being the instrument of Spider-Man's revenge. _Serves him right for destroying Peter's reputation_, she thought fiercely.

_Love was all we knew. _

They flew over Times Square, 42nd Street, Hell's Kitchen, and the Theater District. "Take a look down there," Peter shouted as he showed her the Winter Garden Theater. "That's where you'll be very soon!" Mary Jane flashed a broad grin and pushed her cheek up to his.

_And all I knew was you._

They reached their destination. The Met Life Building had a large flat roof that housed what used to be a heliport. The heliport closed a long time ago, after a fatal accident. Timing his arc with a surgeon's precision, Peter let go of his webline on the upward swing. They were moving so fast that they bounced like a B-17 when they landed. Mary Jane counted three bounces before they finally came to a stop.

"Welcome to my world, M.J. Did you have a good flight?" he asked as he tore the webbing loose so that she could dismount.

"Oh, God, yes!" she answered as she slid off his back, her heart beating faster than his. "Peter, that was just unbelievable. I felt so . . . free."

"One does feel a little closer to God up here." Peter told her. He would know. Usually when he went up there, it was to complain to God about all the misfortunes that had befallen him. There would be no complaining tonight, however.

High above the streets of Manhattan, Peter and Mary Jane watched the sun go down over New Jersey. They sat together on the cold concrete, cheek-to-cheek, rubbing each other's hands to keep warm in the Mid-April evening chill. As they turned toward each other, he again saw in her gorgeous green eyes that same sparkling laughter that always sent his soul soaring amidst the heavens.

"_Tell me something, Mister Parker," _she said softly in a clipped British accent_. "Did you actually believe that I could marry the good captain __after learning that you loved me all along, not to mention that twas you who saved my arse upon numerous occasions?" _She was intentionally parodying Cecily Cardew, her character from Earnest. _"It appears that these two years past, you have been deceiving me, leading a double-life, pretending to be wicked, when all along, you were really being good. I ask you sir, have you not scaled the heights of hypocrisy with the same facility as you scale these magnificent edifices?"_

"_Indeed I have my dear Miss Watson," _Peter responded. He tried his best to remember the diction and mannerisms of Algernon Moncrieff, but instead came off like a character right out of Shakespeare. _"Though blessed be I with the power of the gods, that power is but a brutal curse that has kept thee from my arms. How my heart ached for thee as I roamed the twilight realms, even as my mind told me that you would be safe in the Captain's warm embrace. Though guilty I plead to the charge of keeping my feelings for thee locked away inside me, the thought of thy demise was far too great a burden for my poor heart to bear. Forgive me, dear lady." _

_Whatever advice about poetry that Peter had taken from Otto Octavius, he'd obviously learned his lessons well_, Mary Jane thought, _very well_. Once again, Peter was expressing his feelings for her so eloquently that it melted M.J.'s heart like butter in a hot pan. And once again, as she had when she read his poem about love lost, she felt her emotions rising up like a tidal wave behind her eyes. Now it was her turn to wax poetic. _"Come home to me my Flying Dutchman,"_ she whispered, tears running down her cheeks._ "Cease thy restless wanderings amidst these urban canyons, that I may hold thee in my arms and proclaim my love for thee everlasting." _

She caressed his face as she spoke those words, lifting her mouth toward his. She was about to kiss him when she noticed the abandoned heliport terminal out of the corner of her eye . It was a one-story structure that occupied about a third of the roof. A thought struck her, and she seized upon it. She stood up and motioned him to walk over there with her.

"Peter, do you think that you could . . .?"

He knew immediately what she had in mind. He took off his shoes, so that his feet would adhere to the wall and his hands could be free. Then he jumped up, did a backflip, and in less than a second, he was hanging upside down, his face even with hers.

"Perfect," she whispered, and with that, their lips came together in a kiss that made the one in the alley seem like a peck on the cheek by comparison. Not just their nerves but their entire bodies were aflame—it was as if they had merged and transformed into a white-hot fireball of their own creation. Mary Jane felt certain that neither Flash, nor Harry, nor even John would have survived the surge of raw passion flowing through them at that moment. As for Peter, he felt twenty feet tall, like Bruce Banner might have felt if he had been engulfed by unlimited joy instead of uncontrollable rage. His heart bursting with pride, he leapt onto the roof of the terminal with Mary Jane in his arms and roared, "I LOVE YOU MARY JANE WATSON!" For so long he had those words bottled up inside him, unable to let them out. And now, at last, he was finally able to say them directly to the object of his affections. Not to be outdone, Mary Jane shouted, "AND I LOVE YOU PETER PARKER!" at the top of her lungs. For better or worse, no one else could hear them.

"You know Pete," Mary Jane said as she lay stretched out beside Peter on the roof of the terminal, trying to put into words what she was feeling, "It's like . . .every thing else just vanished. John, the money situation, the wedding . . . it all just melted away as if nothing else mattered. I wish this could last forever . . . city lights below—stars above—and us in between . . . no problems, no responsibilities, just each other."

"So do I, M.J.," he whispered as he struggled to catch the rising Moon's reflection in her beautiful emerald eyes. "More than you could ever know. I just wish . . ."

"What?" she asked expectantly as she slipped a hand beneath his neck and wrapped an arm around his shoulders.

Peter felt overwhelmed. There was so much he had to say, so much to deal with . . . _Tell her about Harry, dammit! Give her the straight scoop, like you said you said you would! She's got to know!_ But he wasn't ready for reality to intrude upon their marvelous reverie. He did not want to wake up from this wonderful dream.

"I wish I could take back all the times that I hurt you, Mary Jane" His voice was starting to break. "All those times that it looked like I was acting like a jerk, screwing around with your feelings and all . . ."

"Hey," Mary Jane said softly as she again caressed his cheek. "I'm okay with it. You did what you thought was right. So don't keep torturing yourself about it, okay?"

She rolled over on top of him and kissed him eagerly on the lips again. As their kiss lengthened, they opened their mouths wide and allowed their tongues to meet. An enormous sense of gratitude engulfed Peter as he realized that he and Mary Jane were finally ready to build a life together. Their love for each other was so strong that nothing and no one would ever come between them again. He felt her shivering as he wrapped his arms even more tightly around her. He also felt himself growing as her pelvis pressed intimately against his.

"Are you ready to go back?" he asked gently.

"Y-Y-Y-Yes," she answered. Her teeth may have been chattering as she smiled at him, but in her eyes he saw the unmistakable gleam that signaled arousal.

He rubbed her back lightly but quickly to get her warm. Then he motioned her to get up and climb aboard. As soon as she was in position, he secured her into place with his webbing, just as he'd done before. Then he fired a line at the Chrysler Building, and together, they swung off into a night sky dominated by a full moon.


	4. Il Diavolo

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Note**

**_Il Diavolo _means, _The Devil_, in Italian. **

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**IV**

**IL DIAVOLO**

Their return trip took them past the abandoned _Fiskcorp_ Tower. Peter looked at it askance. He was as shocked as anyone when billionaire businessman and philanthropist Wilson Fisk had been exposed as New York City's criminal overlord, the Kingpin. Fisk had donated millions of dollars in support of efforts to train and develop young scientists in primary and secondary schools throughout greater New York. Those donations paid for physical plant upgrades, lab equipment, textbooks, curriculum development, teacher training, and numerous other educational goods and services. Midtown High had received grants totaling in the hundreds of thousands of dollars. Several of the awards that Peter won at Midtown, including the prestigious Senior Class Science Award that was presented to him at graduation, had been paid for by those grants. Not only that, but part of Peter's scholarship to New York University had been financed by a _Fiskcorp_ foundation. He was deeply torn over whether to return the scholarship, but after much agonizing deliberation, decided against it. He couldn't be sure whether or not those funds were connected with Fisk's criminal activities, and he really needed that money.

Still, he couldn't help but reflect soberly now how ironic it was that Peter Parker owed his education to the Kingpin of Crime.

Since Fisk's conviction, the situation had deteriorated . . . badly. At least when the Kingpin was running the syndicates, there was an organization in place to restrain his more violent enforcers. Now that organization was gone, and things were totally out of control, with every two-bit hood in the city trying to carve himself a piece of the empire. The bombings, shootings, and knifings occurred with frightening regularity, almost nightly, with no end in sight.

And not even Spider-Man could stop the carnage. The scumbags he painstakingly gift-wrapped for the police were invariably spat back into the streets by an understaffed, overworked, sometimes incompetent, and sometimes corrupt criminal justice system, only to create more mayhem. And the only thanks he ever got for his efforts were those incessant headlines from the _Daily Bugle_ proclaiming _him_ as the Big Apple's greatest menace.

And speaking of the _Daily Bugle_, just where the hell _was_ Jameson when the Kingpin story broke anyway? On the take? No. Jameson may have been a headline-manufacturing sensation-monger and a bastard to work for, but he cared about the city and had definite opinions about what was right and what was wrong. More than that, the necessity of an independent and free press to the functioning of a democratic society was bred in his bones. It was simply not possible for J. Jonah Jameson to be a stooge for organized crime. He must have been as in the dark about Wilson Fisk as everybody else, which meant that he had been asleep at the wheel. No doubt this would raise questions in some quarters about his journalistic prowess.

The _Fiskcorp_ Tower itself had been seized by the federal government in connection with the Kingpin's conviction on multiple counts of racketeering, conspiracy, and murder. One of the tallest buildings in Midtown Manhattan, it stood nearly a thousand feet high. Once a gleaming, ultra-modern office building boasting state-of-the art facilities and expensive art deco interior design, it was now dark and uninhabited, a colossal, silent monument to evil and extravagance. The gigantic _Fiskcorp_ logo still hadn't been removed. Peter guessed that it would be taken down at some point, perhaps after the building had been auctioned off or sold at a government-sponsored fire sale for pennies on the dollar.

When the young couple left the _Fiskcorp_ Tower behind and passed over Hell's Kitchen, Peter's spider-sense suddenly went off as his wonderful moment of bliss with Mary Jane was shattered by the sound of a gunshot.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

_Maybe the Kingpin thing was a mistake, _Matt Murdock was beginning to think as he vaulted over the rooftops of Hell's Kitchen in his Daredevil attire. Until recently, he'd allowed himself to feel a little bit of pride in what he'd accomplished—bringing down the most powerful organized crime figure in history. The man responsible for the death of his father and hundreds of others, the man who had hired that evil bastard Bullseye to murder his lover, Elektra, was locked away in a federal prison upstate, awaiting execution for crimes too numerous to list. Justice had been served.

But in his single-minded quest for that justice, Matt now realized that he hadn't stopped to consider the law of unintended consequences. With Fisk's conviction, the syndicates that maintained order and discipline throughout the underworld came crashing down. Now, hoods who once answered to the Kingpin were building their own empires on the corpses of their rivals. They roamed the streets with impunity, terrorizing those who could not defend themselves, in their homes, in their businesses, even in their churches. _But not in the Kitchen_, he vowed silently. Not in his neighborhood. He would leave it to Spider-Man and the police worry about the rest of the city. He would do his utmost to make sure that Hell's Kitchen remained a safe haven for all who lived and worked there.

But it wasn't easy. What was the point of putting these criminals through the justice system if they were going to end up back out on the streets in a few months? Matt was beginning to feel like an overworked fire fighter. He knew all too well the weaknesses of that system, but there was little he could do other than keep his clients away from its maw.

Suddenly, he heard the scream of a man being assaulted. He was able to make out three or four assailants. He heard the victim cry out, "No, no more, Torpedo, please! I'll have the money tomorrow, I swear!" In no time flat, he'd found the alley where the assault was taking place. It was near the intersection of 58th Street and Tenth Avenue, seven blocks away from where he first heard the victim's shouts.

He knew Torpedo well. He used to be one of the Kingpin's low-level enforcers, but was now freelancing. _A lousy punk trying to make a name for himself at some innocent's expense, just like the rest of them_, Matt thought in disgust as he zeroed in on his target. Torpedo and his three associates were ganging up on a middle-aged mom-and-pop jewelry shop owner who was scarcely able to put up any resistance.

Unfortunately, Matt lost the element of surprise when he landed with a clang on a fire escape directly above the hoods. When they spotted him, they dropped their victim and ran frantically out onto Tenth Avenue, toward a warehouse at the nearby intersection. In desperation, Torpedo fired his pistol at Matt, but the cowled crusader anticipated the bullet's trajectory and got out of the way in an instant. Then he once again took to the rooftops, leaping over alleys as easily as Spider-Man. By the time the punks had reached the intersection, he was already waiting for them.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

The shot startled Mary Jane, who jumped despite being restrained by Peter's webbing. _Oh man!_ Peter groaned inwardly,_ can't we have a respite for just one night?_ The shot apparently came from the vicinity of the intersection at Tenth Avenue and 58th Street, over which they had just passed. A four-story warehouse occupied the southeast corner of that intersection. On top of the warehouse was another _Emma Rose Parfumerie_ billboard that featured the forty-foot picture of Mary Jane. The picture-side of the board was well lit from a series of lights at its base. It was totally dark on the back side.

Peter found himself in a dilemma. The last thing he ever wanted to do was expose Mary Jane to danger. But, on the other hand, he could not just fly by and do nothing while shots were being fired. People's lives might be imperiled, and that was the one imperative that took precedence over everything else, including Mary Jane's comfort. Costume or no, he decided that he would act if circumstances demanded.

Peter landed on the lips of Mary Jane's image and climbed rapidly to the top of the billboard. With their combined eight limbs, the two of them could have easily been mistaken for a giant spider. Peter carefully vaulted over to the back side and found a horizontal support for him and Mary Jane to stand on. The vantage point gave them a clear view of the intersection. Had they not been concealed by the shadows, anyone looking in their direction would have seen two pairs of eyes peering over the top of the billboard— a brown-haired man's and a red-haired woman's.

Peter looked up Tenth Avenue and Mary Jane followed his gaze. The street was deserted, except for four tough-looking types who were running in their direction. But they did not appear to be chasing anybody. They were running _from_ someone . . . or something. One of them was carrying a pistol that appeared to be out of bullets. He could hear them shouting. He was unable to make out what most of them were saying, but the one with the gun appeared to be screaming, "Oh God! No!"

It was Mary Jane who directed Peter's attention to the source of their fright. It, or rather he, was crouching on a fire escape jutting out from the building across the intersection. He was dressed in a tight-fitting jumpsuit that appeared to made of red leather. Boots and gloves completed the outfit. His face was hidden by a cowl. At their distance, neither Peter nor Mary Jane were able to make out any significant details, other than what looked like a pair of horns protruding from the man's forehead. On his right thigh rested a holster. It contained two objects that looked like clubs, but they could not be sure.

"My God," whispered Mary Jane, trying to keep her fear in check. "Who the hell is that?"

"Daredevil," Peter answered, awestruck. There were rumors about Daredevil long before Spider-Man appeared on the scene. Rumors, but no proof. Because no photographs or videos were ever taken, none of the eyewitnesses who claimed to have seen Daredevil were taken seriously by the police or the media. Daredevil was just another urban legend as far as they and the public were concerned. What puzzled Peter was why the appearance of Spider-Man did not bolster claims about Daredevil in the public's mind. In fact, it seemed to have had the opposite effect. What ever press coverage there was of Daredevil disappeared right after the _Bugle_ began tracking Spider-Man.

But none of that was relevant now. As far as Mary Jane and Peter were concerned, they had all the proof they needed. Despite the cold, they watched in silent fascination from the top of the billboard as Daredevil swan-dived off the fire escape, did a double somersault and landed upright on in the middle of the street. Without missing a beat, he unsheathed his two clubs and snapped them together so that they became one long club. He hurled it at the punk with the gun. His aim was perfect. The impact shattered the punk's hand as it knocked the weapon clear. The punk screamed in pain as the others, realizing that an attack was imminent, attempted to defend themselves. They were either brave or foolhardy depending on their audience's perspective. As the only two members of the audience, Peter and Mary Jane were thinking the latter.

They were right. Daredevil was all over the punks in a matter of seconds. Using a brand of martial arts that Peter had never seen before, Daredevil unloaded an arsenal of punches, kicks and chops that sent the punks flying off in different directions. It was over almost before it started. Daredevil grabbed the punk who had the gun, heaved him up by his jacket and glared into his face. "Consider this your final warning!" he growled, loud enough for Peter and Mary Jane to hear him clearly. "If I _ever_ see your ass in Hell's Kitchen again, I'll be the last thing your eyes ever see. You GOT it?" And with that, he hurled the punk to the pavement. As soon as the punk staggered to his feet, he and his compatriots scurried away toward the shadows like rats seeking the protection of the dark. Two of them were limping. All of them were bleeding.

Stupefied, Mary Jane stared at the red apparition standing in the middle of the intersection. Unlike Spider-Man, who managed to keep his sense of humor while in action, this Daredevil had a deadly serious demeanor, and there was a streak of brutality about him that really unnerved her.

"Looks like you've got some competition there, Tiger!" she whispered.

"Maybe," Peter said, his voice tinged with admiration. "Or maybe an ally."

Suddenly, Peter's spider-sense started to tingle at a low level. Daredevil was staring straight at them. Mary Jane felt a thrill of fear, but relaxed, remembering who was with her.

Peter was shocked. They had to be at least a hundred yards from where Daredevil was standing, and they were whispering to each other. How could he have possibly heard them from that distance?

"Uh-oh, he sees us Pete!" Mary Jane said anxiously.

Although Peter was sure that Mary Jane was not in any danger, he did not want her near combat zones, and he certainly didn't want to give her any reason to change her mind about him. He felt it best that he get her home as soon as possible.

"Okay," he ordered. "Let's get out of here." He immediately fired a webline and the two of them were airborne again.

But Daredevil had not made any aggressive moves in their direction. He obviously did not consider them a threat. As Peter and M.J. swung away from the billboard, they heard a shout from behind: "Hey lady! I'm not the bad guy!"

To Mary Jane, it sounded as if Daredevil wanted to reassure her. She was utterly amazed that he could detect her fear from so great a distance. Amazement abruptly gave way to realization—that Daredevil and Spider-Man were on the same side, and that neither she nor Peter had anything to fear from him.

As for Peter, he began to think that Daredevil was the only other person in the world who could truly understand him. He was already beginning to feel a sense of kinship with the man. And he hoped that Daredevil would feel the same way.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Matt was about to leave the scene when he heard voices coming from the direction of the large billboard across the intersection. He looked up toward the billboard. His enhanced senses enabled him to perceive the presence of a male and a female. They were hidden behind the billboard and concealed in the shadows, but he was able to make out radar-like images of the tops of their heads. Apparently, they had witnessed the show he'd just put on. Had he been able to actually see the picture on the billboard, he might have recognized the woman from the _Emma Rose _advertisements.

Who were these people? Cops? Journalists? How could they have gotten up there without him being aware of it? He was about to vault up to them and ask what they were doing up there. But then they started talking, and he was able to hear their conversation as clearly as if he were standing in between them.

_Woman_: "Looks like you've got some competition there, Tiger!"

_Man_: "Maybe. Or maybe an ally."

_Woman_: "Uh-oh, he sees us Pete!"

_Man_: "Okay. Let's get out of here."

That conversation told him that they were not connected with the punks he'd just busted up, and were therefore not a threat. He could that tell he must have scared the woman because he was able to perceive a surge in her heartbeat. He could also detect something in the man's voice patterns that gave the impression of. . . admiration.

He wanted to let them know that he would not hurt them, but before he could move, the man fired some kind of bungee cord and the two of them swung out and disappeared over the rooftops. As they took off, Matt shouted after the woman, "Hey lady! I'm not the bad guy!" He wondered if she even heard him as he turned his attention to Torpedo's victim. He would help the man home, or get medical help if he was seriously injured.

And as Matt Murdock made his way back to the alley, it suddenly hit him who the man hiding behind the billboard must be. His companion, probably his girlfriend, called him "Pete." But it was Spider-Man. Of that he was absolutely sure. That bungee cord he was swinging from was the give-away. It had to be his webbing.

He knew very little about Spider-Man since he neither read tabloids nor watched television. From what he'd heard, the man apparently had tremendous strength and agility, and used his unique gifts to try and make the world a better place, whether by incapacitating bad guys or pulling people out of burning tenements. _And Spider-Man was looking for an ally?_ Well, why not. Matt could definitely use the help. New York City was being over-run by the Kingpin's former underlings.

Like Peter, Matt also needed someone to talk to, someone who could understand his double-life, his twilight existence, his need to keep secrets from close friends like Foggy Nelson, his law partner. Spider-Man was perhaps the only other person in the world to whom he could relate on a fundamental level. After all, they were probably hewn from the same slab of granite. Perhaps one day they would meet.

And Matt was absolutely sure that Spider-Man was the victim of bad press. Foggy, an avid reader of the tabloids, consistently complained that the _Daily Bugle_ had the wrong angle on Spider-Man. That wasn't surprising, since the _Bugle_ had completely missed the Kingpin story. Matt wondered if Jonah Jameson railed on Spider-Man in order to deflect attention from his own less-than-stellar performance as a journalist.

Fortunately for Matt, the press's focus on Spider-Man drew the public's attention away from Daredevil, which left him free to operate without being under a reporter's spotlight, and nearly always gave him the advantage in confrontations with thugs. Even Foggy had stopped badgering him about Daredevil.

It wasn't such a big mystery as to why Daredevil was able to remain in the shadows. Unlike Spider-Man, he only came out at night, which made it extremely difficult to be seen, let alone photographed. And also, unlike Spider-Man, he had a friend in the press, a legendary, tough-as-nails crime reporter named Ben Urich—the same Ben Urich who won the Pulitzer Prize for his Kingpin exposé—the same Ben Urich who promised to keep his secret.

And, unbeknownst to Matt Murdock, the same Ben Urich who had lunch with Peter Parker every Wednesday.


	5. Declaration of War

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Note**

**The line, "_Resistance . . . is . . . futile,"_ comes from the film, _Independence Day,_****© **1996 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc.

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**V**

**DECLARATION OF WAR**

Traveling swiftly and silently through the night air, Peter and Mary Jane landed in an alley five blocks away from their destination. Peter worked quickly to tear the webbing off their clothes and dispose of it using routines honed from years of practice. After checking to make sure that no one else could see them, they emerged quietly from the alley. Holding hands, they walked quickly back to her apartment building.

"Would you like to come upstairs for some hot chai?" she asked as they arrived at the revolving door.

Peter had never heard of chai. Curious, he asked, "What's that?"

"It's sort of like a tea, only sweeter," she explained. "It's really very good."

"Sure, I'd love to try some," he said softly, feeling both excited and terrified at being invited back up to her place after sundown.

They rode up the elevator, not speaking, but communicating nonetheless. They simply could not take their eyes off each other. Their mutual enthrallment was broken by the sound of the elevator doors opening on her floor.

"I have to be out of here in two weeks," Mary Jane told Peter matter-of-factly as she opened the door to her apartment. "I gave notice. You know, the wedding and all."

"What will you do?" Peter asked, concerned about whether she would be able to find a new place to live in so short a time.

She gave him a sidelong glance. "I don't know. . . maybe move in with you." She said it in the most natural and conversational way, as if no other answer was even worth contemplating.

"In _that_ rat hole?" Peter retorted, "I don't think so. Hell, even _I_ can't live there anymore!"

"Well then, what _are_ we going to do?" M.J. asked mockingly as she started to caress his face. He jumped back. Her hands were still very cold.

"Sorry," she apologized.

"Here," he said, rubbing her hands to warm them up, being careful not to rub too hard, lest the friction burn her. "How's that, M.J.?" Peter asked with a shy smile, delighted to do any little thing that would make her comfortable.

"Much better," Mary Jane answered, smiling back wholeheartedly. "You know I really had a great time tonight Pete. Thanks for letting me into your world. You really see things from a different perspective up there. It's so beautiful, so peaceful."

"Glad you liked it M.J.," said Peter sincerely. "Sometimes I just go up there to clear my head and find a little solace ." . . . _Like I did when I saw you get engaged to John_.

"Do you know what was the most fun?" Mary Jane asked playfully.

"Let me guess. The billboard."

She shook her head. "Not even close."

"Why not? I mean, how often does one get to climb up her own face?"

She laughed softly and put her arms around him, her eyes sparkling. "Actually, it was the kiss you gave me on the roof of that building. And the flight wasn't too bad either." She paused, and then said, "Why don't you tell me what _your_ favorite part of it was?"

"Just having you up there with me," he said, inwardly taking pleasure in watching her face light up.

"Go relax on the couch for a while I get the chai ready," Mary Jane suggested. It was the same couch where, with her ex-fiancé, she'd tried unsuccessfully to recreate the magical moment she'd once shared with Peter in the rain-soaked alley so long ago.

"Shoes off," she ordered, just as he was about to sit down. He complied.

It didn't take long to prepare the chai. It was a Starbuck's special, vanilla chai latte, available in any supermarket. She poured the mix into two coffee mugs filled with water and stirred. As she stuck the drinks in her microwave, she called out, "Pete, can you put out two coasters? They're on the coffee table."

"Sure, M.J. . . . Done."

Mary Jane took off her sweater and tossed it onto a dining room chair. She brought the mugs of steaming chai over, set them down on the coasters and sat down next to Peter on the couch. They picked up their mugs simultaneously, clanging them in a toast to being together at last, after so many years of struggle and heartache.

"L'chiam," said Peter. He'd been to enough bar mitzvahs to know what it meant.

"L'chiam," responded Mary Jane.

Peter found the chai to be delicious. The sweet, hot liquid felt so good cascading down his throat. It warmed him up almost as much as being next to the woman he loved.

As they finished their drinks, they both became acutely aware of the sounds from the city filtering through her windows. Mary Jane hoped and prayed that they would not hear any sound that would take him away from her that night. She nestled up to him as they leaned back, put their feet up on the coffee table, and draped their arms around each other's shoulders. With her free hand, she gently stroked his chest. Through the fabric of his shirt, his pecs felt like warm marble.

Peter, meanwhile, was silently admiring Mary Jane's long, incredibly gorgeous legs, and the soft skin of her flat stomach that was left exposed by the short-sleeved top she was wearing. The bottom of her belly button was barely showing. To Peter, it was a sacred site, something that, only twenty four hours earlier, he would never have expected or even hoped to set eyes on. Now, he couldn't take his eyes off her. He wondered if she were deliberately trying to arouse him.

Neither Peter's expression nor the direction of his gaze was lost on Mary Jane. She exulted in the fact that she was succeeding in arousing him. "Face it Tiger," she said in the most seductive whisper she could muster, "you just hit the jackpot!" He could not agree more.

They cuddled together on the sofa and started necking as though they were back in high school. As they kissed, she unbuttoned the top four buttons of his shirt and ran her fingers lightly over his chest. In response, he slipped his hands beneath her top and gently massaged the small of her back. She felt a strange tingling. It was coming from the microsurges of static electricity that enabled his fingers and toes to adhere to vertical surfaces. Mary Jane felt as though her body were being lightly touched with an electrically charged feather. The feeling was absolutely sensational.

"Wow, Tiger, you've _really_ got the magic touch," she giggled. "Is that how you climb walls?"

Peter gave her a mysterious, inscrutable smile. "A good magician never reveals his secrets . . .but if you really have to know, the answer is yes."

They lay close together on the couch, hugging, kissing, caressing, and massaging each other until well after midnight. Mary Jane could not get enough of Peter's electrical fingers gently playing across the skin of her back and stomach. It felt wildly erotic and was driving her crazy.

Peter discretely looked at his watch, and was shocked to discover that two hours and twenty minutes had passed since they had returned to Mary Jane's apartment. It was getting late and he really needed to get moving.

He started to get up, but Mary Jane wouldn't let him. She had no desire to see him go and did not intend to budge. "Please don't leave," she said softly. "Stay with me tonight." He looked into her eyes again. They were filled with passionate desire, bordering on lust.

Peter's breath got caught in his throat as he heard the snap on M.J.'s pants being opened. Glancing down reflexively, he saw that her shirt was hiked up almost to the bottom of her breasts, exposing a delicious expanse of skin, her belly button in the middle. It was a shallow innie that reminded him of a flat-bottomed crater. Looking down a little further, he saw that her snap was indeed undone. She was pulling her zipper down, very slowly, very deliberately, as if she were doing a strip tease. "Oh Peter," she whispered roguishly, laughing inwardly at her boyfriend's pathetic struggle to stay cool, "you're shaking!" Raising the temperature even further, she reached over and undid the rest of his shirt buttons. When she finished, she took his hand and guided it toward her open fly. He caught a glimpse of the white panties that barely covered her mons veneris. A thin hedge of red pubic hair was peeking out over the top.

At that moment, Peter Parker had no willpower left in him at all. Mary Jane had him totally at her command, and she wanted him to touch her body in that most intimate and special of places.

_Resistance . . . is . . . futile,_ he thought, holding his breath as his fingers made contact with the sheer fabric of her panties.

_Tell her, you idiot!_

It was Spider-Man, yelling at him so loudly in his mind that Peter was sure Mary Jane could hear it. He yanked his hand away from her as if he had touched a live wire.

_Tell her about Harry! Tell her NOW, godammit!_

His sudden movement startled Mary Jane, who watched his expression go from ecstacy to agony in less than three seconds. "Peter, what is it?" she asked, afraid that he had picked up some unfolding emergency and would have to leave.

Peter saw the distraught look on her face and knew that moment was gone. If there is one thing that Peter had in abundance besides lousy timing, it was an unsurpassed talent for making magical moments disappear. But there would be many more intimate moments in the days and months ahead, and this was a matter of life and death. He looked her straight in the eye and did not mince words.

"Harry knows."

"About us?"

"About _me_."

Mary Jane did not have to be told more than once about what he meant. She recalled hearing Doc Ock saying something about Harry Osborn not having the balls to kill Spider-Man. At the time, she could not believe that Harry was capable of harming anything, let alone another human being. But his obsession with Spider-Man and the death of his father had been all-consuming and was probably taking a toll on his sanity. She remembered catching a brief glimpse of Harry at the planetarium party, drinking heavily and spouting off to anyone within earshot how the wall-crawler had murdered Norman Osborn. And with his money, his obsession, and now his knowledge, he could raise hell far worse than Jonah Jameson ever could.

"How did he find out?" Mary Jane asked. She was worried, but not frightened.

"It was Otto Octavius," Peter answered reluctantly, not wanting to refer to his one-time idol by that humiliating moniker with which Jameson had christened him. "Otto delivered me to Harry gift-wrapped in barbed wire in exchange for the material he needed to fire up his fusion reactor. Harry pulled off my mask while I was tied up and still groggy from being knocked out. He was ready to plunge a knife into me, but when he saw who it was, he hesitated, and that bought me enough time to escape. Then he saw me break out of the barbed wire, and I think it messed him up really bad."

Mary Jane was still confused. "Peter, exactly where did Harry get the idea that you killed his dad?"

Peter held her eyes with his own. "Norman Osborn," he said without preface, "was the Green Goblin." There was no emotion in his voice. Only a conviction that told Mary Jane it was true.

Mary Jane's eyes widened, not with shock or disbelief, but with confirmation, validation, . . . and vindication. "I knew it!" she cried, "I knew there was a reason I never liked that creepy bastard! He wiped out all those people on the balcony! He tried to kill innocent kids! He tried to kill me, and you! . . .My God, he even tried to kill his own son! There's no telling how much more harm he might've caused if you hadn't stopped him! You did the right thing."

"But I didn't kill him, Mary Jane!" Peter protested, realizing how important it was for her to know the truth. "His glider was coming straight at me. If I hadn't gotten out of the way at the last second, I would've been sheesh-ka-bobbed instead of him. His last words were, 'don't tell Harry,' and I respected that. . ." He felt tears coming. "When does it end, Mary Jane? My life is such a goddamned soap opera! I win back the girl I love only to lose my best friend. It's like I'm always getting screwed for trying to do the right thing, and God never gets tired of shoving my face in it."

He embraced her closely and started to cry. "I miss him, Mary Jane. . . .I miss him so much." he sobbed. "He's the brother that I never had. We'd been tight for so many years, been through so much together. I just want us to get back to where we were before this whole Spider-Man thing got started . . . back to where we could trust each other again. I just want to be able to get through his thick skull and tell him what really happened."

"That might be the best thing to do, Pete," M.J. agreed softly, stroking his back with a comforting hand.

"What?"

"Tell him the truth."

Peter shook his head. "He'd never accept it," he demurred. Besides, the minute that Harry finds out about the Goblin, he'll know that his own father tried to kill him. Can you imagine what that would do to him? What it would do to anyone? That's why I never told him. I don't want to hurt him any more than he's already been hurt."

"How do you know that?" Mary Jane asked, gently but firmly. "Harry's a grown man, Peter. He has a right to know what his father was. Could the truth put him in any worse shape than he's already in?" She knew by the expression of comprehension on Peter's face that she'd definitely scored some debating points in that round. And when Peter didn't answer, she went on.

"Look Tiger, I know your heart's in the right place, and that's why I love you. But you have a tendency to decide things for other people that you have no right to decide. I mean, look at us, Pete. You never told me you were Spider-Man. You never even gave me the chance to make up my own mind. Instead you decided that it would be too dangerous, and you let me believe that you didn't care about me any more. I just wish you knew how much it hurt when you pushed me away." As she spoke, her voice started to break slightly, and her eyes were tearing up. It was so hard for her to revisit that subject, even in retrospect.

"I did, Mary Jane. Believe me, I did . . ." Peter said earnestly.

But he didn't, not really, she thought. He'd been so concerned about her physical safety that he had never thought about her feelings or her emotional well being. And two years of being rejected by the man she loved had left scars on Mary Jane Watson's psyche—scars that would take a long time to heal.

"Then why do the same thing to Harry?" she asked. "You _know_ that you didn't kill his father, but you're letting Harry go on believing that you did, watching him deteriorate, watching him make a mess of his life. You took it upon yourself to decide that he wasn't ready to hear the truth, and all you're doing is prolonging his agony. Life is full of unpleasant truths, Peter. You can't keep sheltering people from those truths, especially the people you care about the most. Tell him! What he does after that is up to him."

Peter stared at Mary Jane as a side of her that neither of them knew existed showed itself for the very first time. In less than five minutes, she had given him a very clear perspective on problems that had vexed him for years. She helped him realize that his loved ones did not have to suffer on account of his actions, and that he needed to tell it like it is in order to prevent such outcomes. He _had_ to tell Harry the truth about his father, come what may. Otherwise Harry would continue on his downward spiral. Even if they could never be friends again, Peter at least owed him the chance to find closure.

"You're such an amazing, woman, Mary Jane." he said as he swept her up in his arms again. "God, I just never saw the other side of it . . .and to think that I almost lost you forever because of my bull-headedness. Thank you. Thanks so much for helping me through this. And I will try to talk to Harry in the next few days, I promise."

"It's okay Pete, it's okay," she whispered, hugging him tightly. "I know you'll do the right thing, and I'm here now. I'm here for you anytime you need me." Mary Jane had never been in love with anyone as much as she was in love with Peter. And she knew that theirs would be a special kind of love, a love not seen since the days when the gods of Mount Olympus took mortal women as their consorts. She felt deeply honored and humbled that this latter-day god had chosen her to be his consort, and that he trusted her enough to share his vulnerabilities and frailties with her. Clearly, he needed guidance to navigate the world of mortals, and she would give him that guidance. She was now aware of her purpose, and nothing ennobles one more than a sense of purpose. For that reason, she was no longer upset or disappointed that they would not be making love that night. There would be other nights . . . _many_ other nights.

"M.J.," Peter said as he released her, buttoned up his shirt, and reached for his jacket, "I really have to go. My academic advisor wants to see me in the morning."

"On a Sunday?" Mary Jane asked, somewhat surprised.

"That's what he said," replied Peter, shrugging his shoulders. It was unusual for a professor to see a student on a Sunday morning, and Connors gave no hint on the phone of what the matter was or why it couldn't wait until his normal office hours on Tuesday. He'd just told Peter to show up at his office. Peter did not have a very good feeling about it.

"What time?" Mary Jane asked.

"Ten."

"Can I come with you?"

Peter thought about it for a moment. He would probably need her shoulder to cry on if Connors flunked him. "Sure, why not," he said. "Meet me at ten minutes before ten, under the Washington Square Arch. Okay?"

"Okay Tiger. Can I walk you downstairs?"

"How about _upstairs,_ M.J.? Can you show me how to get to the roof in this place?"

"Sure. There's a service door on the top floor that leads to an emergency exit. Every resident has a key." She grabbed her keys out of her purse, put on her jacket and together they left her apartment.

"M.J.," said Peter, blushing.

"Yes?"

"You might want to zip up."

Thinking that he meant the jacket, she said, "I don't have to."

"Uh . . .er . . .M.J. . ."

She looked up at him quizzically. He gave her a quick downward glance. Following his cue, Mary Jane looked down and saw that her fly was still open. "Oh," she said as she hastily zipped it up, her cheeks turning the color of her hair. She was extremely grateful that no one else was in the corridor.

They took the elevator to the fortieth floor. When they arrived, Mary Jane led him to the door they needed to find. She opened it, turned on the lights, and led him up the short stairway. The emergency exit was at the top of those stairs.

"If this door closes, can you still get back in?" Peter asked her.

"Yes," she responded, thinking how awfully sweet it was of him to make sure that she would not be stuck on the roof all night long. _Of course, it wouldn't be such a bad deal if he stayed with me up here_, she thought naughtily.

She opened the door for him, and together they stepped out onto her roof, into the night. They held each other as the door closed behind them. But as he wrapped his arms around her, he suddenly found his thoughts being directed back to the encounter with Daredevil in Hell's Kitchen. All at once, something began to take over his brain as though it was infected by spyware. He could not control the images that were coalescing in his mind, nor could he stop them from forming. _He and Mary Jane were on the billboard . . . the side of the billboard that was lighted . . . exposed . . . a target. There was a shot aimed right at them. . . and Mary Jane screamed and fell. . . ._

_What the hell have I done? M.J.! Oh my God! NOOOOOOOOOO!_

Even the dark, Mary Jane could tell that something was amiss. She felt Peter stiffen in her arms, and heard him muttering about her how he needlessly put her in jeopardy. "Stop it Peter," she said nervously, "You're scaring me."

" M.J.," Peter gasped, his voice betraying his anxiety, "I'm sorry. That was so stupid of me! Those bastards might have killed you. . . ."

"Peter!" Mary Jane said, a little more sharply this time, "That's enough!" She recognized what was happening. Peter's malevolent demons were refusing to go away quietly. They saw her as a mortal threat to their existence, and they were tightening their grip on Peter, trying to get rid of her, just as they had kept her away from him for two years.

"It's not too late to call this thing off, Mary Jane" Peter continued, obviously in full panic mode. "There's still time for you to patch things up with John. If we . . . ."

"NO!" Mary Jane screamed. That was it! She'd had it with those creatures, and would not take any more crap from them. If it was a fight they wanted, a fight she would give them. It was time to serve notice that their intrusion upon Peter's soul would soon be at an end.

"Don't you _ever, EVER_ say that to me again, Peter Parker!" she shouted right in his face, her arms akimbo. "I don't give a damn how strong you are. If you so much as _think_ about going there, I swear to God I'll cut your balls off!"

Her gambit paid off. Peter was momentarily taken aback by the swiftness and the vehemence of Mary Jane's reaction. But he felt neither hurt nor angry. In fact, the fear disappeared as quickly as it came. Peter chuckled to himself as they gazed at each other, amazed that she'd gotten so tough.

"Thanks M.J. I really needed that, I guess," he said a little sheepishly.

"Don't mention it, sweetheart."

"Did you just make me an offer I couldn't refuse?" he asked impishly.

She squeezed his hands in hers. "You bet your ass, Tiger." she responded softly.

Despite being so cold from the night air, she did not want to let go of him. But the chill eventually got to her. They gave each other one final french kiss, and she slowly released her grip on him.

"Remember," he said, "ten to ten, under the arch." And with that, he fired his webline and took off.

She ran to the edge of the roof, following him as far as she could. "I'll be there!" she shouted as he disappeared into the night.

Freezing, she turned around and went back inside, knowing that she had her work cut out for her. She had just declared war on the twin demons.


	6. Commitment

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**The quotation from Dr. Otto Octavius is taken verbatim from: Peter David, _Spider-Man 2 - The Official Novelization of the Film_ (New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2004), p. 78. **

**GRE - Graduate Record Examination - An examination administered to undergraduates to test their general aptitudes for graduate study. **

**MCAT - Medical College Admission Test.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**VI**

**COMMITMENT**

By the time Peter landed on his terrace and slipped through his open window, it was nearly 2:00 AM. He swiftly got undressed and put on the sweats that doubled as pajamas. As he climbed into bed, his Flying Dutchman love poem fell to the floor. He didn't even bother to pick it up. Likewise, he didn't notice the summons that was lying on the floor. It had been shoved under his door by Ursula Ditkovitch, after he had left for Mary Jane's. He turned off the light, too exhausted to go out on patrol. Within minutes, he fell asleep, with visions of Mary Jane, Harry Osborn, Daredevil, and Dr. Connors dancing in his head.

At promptly 9:45 the next morning, Peter arrived at the Washington Square Arch, the centerpiece of the N.Y.U. campus, a miniature Arc de Triomphe. There weren't too many people walking around campus, even though it was a bright, sunny April Sunday, with nary a cloud in the sky. The flowers and trees were coming into full bloom. _Perfect day for an execution_, he thought, rather glumly. _What the hell was I thinking, letting Mary Jane watch Connors hand me my head on a plate_?

His spider-sense must have been turned off. As he was standing beneath the arch, the aroma of _Emma Rose_ strawberry perfume suddenly filled his nostrils, and a pair of hands that were not his appeared in his field of vision and covered his eyes. They were soft and feminine. And the voice that owned those hands made him forget, at least for the moment, the sense of foreboding accompanying his visit to Dr. Connors.

"I'll give you three guesses who this is," Mary Jane said softly, "And you'd better get it right the first time."

"Uh . . . Gwen?" Peter said, referring to Gwen Stacy, his lab partner in advanced microbiology. At that answer, Mary Jane yanked on his hair.

"Wrong!" she said with a slight giggle, knowing that he was just teasing her.

"Aunt May?"

"I'll take that as a compliment, but no." She reached around his neck as if to strangle him. "Strike two."

"Well then, maybe it's . . . Rumpelstiltskin!"

"Right, and you _know_ what that means," Mary Jane laughed. "I get to have your first-born!"

As he turned around to behold his beloved, she leaped into his arms for a long, passionate kiss.

"Okay, okay, M.J.," he said, pulling back as she gave him a wide-eyed-lost-puppy look for having broken the kiss. "Let's go. The executioner awaits."

"Oh Peter, don't be so doomy-gloomy," Mary Jane admonished, "he's probably going to tell you to go to medical school or something."

"From your mouth to God's ear, I should only be so lucky," he said. "Come on. Connors' office is over this way."

Holding hands, they walked across the main quad, past the student union, the commons, and the library. In her jeans and rose sweater, Mary Jane blended into the campus environment perfectly. She appeared to be just another N.Y.U. student spending a Sunday out with her boyfriend. "There," Peter said as he pointed to a building with a sign identifying it as, _Science I_. They walked inside, turned left, and proceeded down the corridor until they came to a door marked,_ Department of Biological Sciences - Curtis N. Connors, M.D. - Ph.D. - Chair_.

The door was partially open. Peter swallowed and knocked on the door. His hand was trembling. There was no answer. He knocked again, a little bit louder this time. Still no answer. "Dr. Connors?" Peter called.

"Come in, Parker," replied Connors, his voice coming from the far end of the office. As Peter pushed in the door, Mary Jane imagined him as the cowardly lion trying to get up the courage to ask the Wizard of Oz _for_ courage. She found it endearing that Spider-Man, the great and powerful, could actually be afraid of another human being.

Peter and Mary Jane stepped inside the office. It was a large octagonal-shaped room, surrounded by professors' individual cubicles. The largest cube, directly across from the main entrance, was Connors'. The place seemed deserted until Connors emerged, holding a student's term paper in his left hand . . . his only hand. Peter recognized it immediately. It was the paper he'd done on Otto Octavius. He'd completed it within two days of that first disastrous demonstration, and had incorporated Octavius's own data into his analysis. In essence, the paper posed the same question that Peter had asked Otto over lunch, namely whether fusion reactions could be contained by magnetic fields. Otto's second experiment, the one that almost took Mary Jane's life, confirmed Peter's theory. He was glad that Otto had never read it.

Professor Connors' eyes fell upon Mary Jane. "And who is this lovely young lady?" he inquired pleasantly.

"Dr. Connors, this is Mary Jane Watson, my fian. . . my very special friend." He didn't want call Mary Jane his fiancée because they were not engaged, _not yet anyway_, and he didn't want to be too presumptuous. Mary Jane did not appear to notice his stumble. She merely nodded and said politely, "Good morning, Professor."

Dr. Connors was staring at her intently, trying to remember whether he'd seen her before. But unlike Norman Osborn and J. Jonah Jameson, he did not intimidate Mary Jane in the least. Of course, he was not Peter's father, although he did give her the distinct impression of having a fatherly interest in him.

Suddenly, the light of recognition flashed in his eyes. "You're the featured performer in _The Importance of Being Earnest_, over at the Lyric, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir," she said with a smile and a slight blush.

"My wife and I are frequent theater-goers. We often visit the Lyric. I must say that you delivered a wonderful performance as Cecily."

"Thank you, sir. That's very kind of you." All those horror stories Peter told her and Harry about Professor Connors over the years must have been exaggerations. He seemed like a very nice man.

"Tell me something, Miss Watson," Dr. Connors continued. "Do you have stake in this young man's future?"

"Yes . . . I do," she replied earnestly.

"Then I suggest that you join us, since what I am going to tell Mr. Parker will no doubt affect you as well."

Peter's face remained impassive, but inwardly, he was groaning. Connors was probably going to tell him to find another major and use Mary Jane to reinforce his point.

Dr. Connors motioned them inside his cubicle. It was cluttered with books, folders, laboratory reports, correspondence, photographs, three laptops, and all sorts of other odds and ends. The two chairs in front of Connors' desk were being used as storage space for student papers, most of which were still ungraded.

"Just go ahead and move those papers out of the way," Connors told them. "You can put them over there, in the corner."

They sat down once the papers were cleared. Mary Jane could not help noticing the expression on Peter's face. It was that of a condemned prisoner who'd stuck his head in the guillotine and was waiting for the blade to fall, resigned to his fate. He sat absolutely straight, his hands folded on his lap. Connors sat down behind his desk and put Peter's paper in front of him.

"Mr. Parker," he began, "Your class term paper was three weeks late. Under normal circumstances, your grade would drop by a full letter. . ."

_This is it—I'm doomed,_ thought Peter, his heart pounding. He truly believed that Connors was going to fail him. He truly would rather have been clinging to the stern of the _Titanic_ as it was nosing down for the final plunge than be where he was at that moment, he thought.

That is, until he heard the next thing that came out of Dr. Connors' mouth.

"But this paper is absolutely staggering! It is a tremendous piece of work, a first-rate scientific article worthy of publication! You've thoroughly critiqued Dr. Octavius's theories and presented a point-by-point rebuttal of his interpretations of the experimental data. The references are all there. It's flawless. What's even more amazing is that physics is only your secondary field." He paused. "Tragically, what you predicted turned out to be right." He thumbed through the paper until he found its conclusion and read it aloud to them:

"_To summarize, a self-sustaining fusion reaction of the type posited by Dr. Octavius cannot be contained, no matter how strong the magnetic containment field. The fusion reaction would be simply get stronger and larger until it reached its point of natural equilibrium, which would normally be the size of a sun. At that point, the exchange of energy between the reaction and its surrounding environment would be in balance, which would render the need for containment superfluous. . ." _

His point having been made, Connors stopped reading and put the paper down. "I'm giving you an 'A+' on this paper_ despite your tardiness_, Mr. Parker. And since the paper carries the most weight, you'll probably get an "A" for the course and, miraculously, preserve your perfect GPA."

Peter's jaw dropped. He just sat there in his chair, dumbfounded, almost catatonic. "Hey!" Mary Jane said teasingly, waving her hand up and down in front of his face to snap him out of it.

"Peter," Dr. Connors went on. He never addressed students using first names— that is, unless he thought the student was something special. "I've been teaching at this university for almost thirty five years now. I spent those years looking down the pike for that once-in-a-century intelligence capable of orchestrating a scientific revolution. And until I read your paper, I had all but given up hope that my eyes would ever behold the messiah."

Peter looked like he was ready to go into shock. _Surely, he can't be talking about me_, he was thinking. But Mary Jane was not surprised. She knew that Peter was brilliant. He'd taken a boatload of advanced placement courses at Midtown, he'd won numerous awards, including the prestigious Westinghouse Talent Search and the Senior Class Science Award . . . _He has so much on the ball. Why does he sell himself so goddamn short?_ she asked herself in frustration as she observed her boyfriend's rather bizarre reactions to his teacher's praise.

Dr. Connors continued. "There have been hundreds of papers critiquing Otto's work in professional journals, but none of them reflect the clarity of thought and original insights that I saw in yours." He put his hand down on the desk and leaned forward, as close to Peter's face as he could get.

"The last conversation I ever had with Otto was about you. Did you know that? He told me all about your dinner get-together with him and Rosie. Do you know what he said to me? He said, 'Curtis, you've got to light a fire under that boy's ass and put his nose to the grindstone. He's got Nobel Prize written all over him.' "

Peter couldn't believe it. _Otto said that? About me?_ As Connors spoke, he recalled the admonition he'd gotten the day he'd met Otto Octavius for the first time— _"Being brilliant isn't enough. You have to work hard. Intelligence isn't a privilege, it's a gift. It's not yours to waste. We've been given the power of intelligence for a purpose: to use it for the good of mankind."_ Neither Connors nor Mary Jane noticed a tiny tear forming on the corner of his right eye. At that moment, he wished that Otto Octavius was still alive, that he'd never become Doc Ock. What a mentor he would have made.

Suddenly, Peter remembered that Mary Jane might've had a very different opinion of Otto Octavius. "Um . . . Dr. Connors, you should know that Mary Jane was Otto's hostage."

"My God, that's right!" Connors exclaimed. He remembered seeing Mary Jane on the news telling reporters what had happened. He started to say something to her, but Mary Jane, thinking quickly on her feet, held up her hand.

"Wait a minute, Pete," she said gently, and turned toward the professor. "Dr. Connors, it's true that he kidnapped me and almost killed me with his experiment. But Peter once idolized him, and that tells me that he must have been a good man and a great scientist before the accident that turned him into that . . . that thing. And you should know, Professor, that in the end, Dr. Octavius did the right thing and destroyed that machine himself, at the cost of his own life. I've forgiven him, and it won't bother me if you talk about him."

"I appreciate your understanding, Miss Watson," Connors said, tears gathering in his eyes. "We in the scientific community lost an invaluable colleague and I lost one of my closest and dearest friends. Thank you."

Peter looked at Mary Jane in utter amazement. She knew exactly the right thing to say at exactly the right time, and now she had Connors eating right out of her hand. _What a charmer_, he thought with pride.

"I'll be frank with you Peter," Connors continued, getting back on track. "Intelligence as vast as yours does not belong to you. It belongs to mankind. You are its custodian, nothing more. Your job is to feed it, care for it, nurture it, and bring it to full flower so that all of humanity can eat of its fruits. But you've been a very poor custodian of what has been entrusted to you. As I watched your performance deteriorate this semester, I became very angry and frustrated that you were squandering your magnificent gifts. And I'LL BE DAMNED if I'm going to stand by and watch you fritter it away."

Peter accepted Connors' judgment humbly, without protest.

"After I'd read your paper, I realized that I had seriously misjudged you," the professor continued, "You're not lazy, you're just bored! You are one of the gifted few who can skip classes the entire semester and still get A's. And that's because our undergraduate curriculum does not present you with challenges commensurate with your capabilities. I should have recognized that much sooner. You're a Mozart, Peter. You should be at Harvard, or Princeton, not here."

"Well sir, to be honest . . ." Peter felt it was beneath him to give his professor another sob story. But it really was the truth, and Dr. Connors _did_ ask. "I did get into those schools, as well as Yale, Stanford, Brown, Penn, and Notre Dame. But my uncle died a few months before I graduated high school, and I've had to support my aunt ever since. And N.Y.U. is the only school that gave me a full four-year scholarship." Of course, he could never tell Connors the most important reason why he had to remain in New York, or the true extent of the burdens he'd taken on.

Connors' expression softened. "I understand, and I'm not unsympathetic. In fact, I admire the fact that you've sacrificed so much for your loved ones. But as your academic advisor, _and your friend_, I have to point out that you're scattering your energies and driving yourself to exhaustion. You'll never reach your full potential if you don't focus on what's important."

"Yes, sir," Peter said meekly. For the first time since he woke up that morning, he started to think that maybe this meeting with Connors would not turn out to be so bad. Maybe it would give him some much-needed direction. And as it turned out, that's exactly what it would do.

Connors turned back to Mary Jane. "Miss Watson, as a rule I do not pry into the personal lives of my students, but in this case, I am compelled to make an exception. You picked a real winner here. Peter is a once-in-a-lifetime talent who has a thorough grasp of where twenty-first century science is heading. It's changing, becoming more interdisciplinary. Just in medicine alone, specialties that don't even exist yet will be commonplace in twenty years. Peter understands all that, instinctively. He has the intellectual heft that it takes to be on the cutting edge! But he must commit himself totally to this endeavor."

His voice was starting to take on the urgency of John the Baptist crying in the wilderness. "No one can make this kind of commitment who doesn't have a steady, reliable life partner by their side who can give them stability. I can see just by your presence here that you can do that for him. If you are ready to make a commitment, then make it as soon as you can. I guarantee that he'll write your ticket for the rest of your lives."

"Sounds like a good idea to me," Mary Jane affirmed as she turned to Peter and took his hand in hers. She was trying to stifle a bout of laughter that was coming on. After what Connors had been saying, she found it hysterical that Peter had actually thought the professor was going to flunk him. She held her free hand over her mouth and feigned a cough to keep from cracking up. _I'm a damn good actress,_ she thought wryly.

"Now Peter," Connors continued, "this is what you need to do for the remainder of your tenure at this university. Stay away from the upper-level undergraduate science courses. They're a waste of your time, and the last thing you need is another easy "A." First, let's get your paper on Otto Octavius's fusion theory published in _Physical Review_, or some other prestigious refereed journal. Then, I want you to jump right into graduate work. You'll need to get some experience in advanced interdisciplinary theory and laboratory technique. Under my supervision, you'll undertake significant laboratory research in an uncharted area and publish the findings of your graduate thesis in a series of articles."

"But what about the prerequisites, sir?" Peter asked anxiously. "And the GRE's?"

"Don't worry about the prereques. I'll arrange a departmental waiver so that you can get credit for having taken those courses. As far as the GRE's are concerned, you'll take them the next time they're offered, which is at the end of June, I believe. Take my word for it, you'll sail through them, but I'll be available to advise you if you have any questions. In the meantime, go ahead and apply to the graduate school right after the semester ends, so that you can get started on the Master's degree program next fall."

"But how much longer will I have to stay on?" Peter asked, not wanting to extend his undergraduate career beyond four years. That's when the scholarship money would run out.

"Not one extra day. You can earn your B.S. and M.S.degrees simultaneously. This is not something that the university normally allows, but, trust me, they'll make an exception in your case."

Peter did not want to spoil the rapport he was rapidly developing with his normally gruff and demanding professor. But he had one pressing concern that overrode all others. "Dr. Connors," he said in a skeptical, but respectful tone. "You know my situation, I really need a job this Summer."

But Dr. Connors had that angle covered as well. "I have a million-dollar consulting contract with Scherrer-Bennoit." he said enticingly. "Ever hear of them?"

Peter shook his head.

"They're a boutique investment banking firm that specializes in emerging biotechnologies. They pay me to follow trends and prepare reports for their Fortune-500 clients, stuff that you've been doing for years, I understand. I could start you at a salary of twenty five thousand dollars a year. So, you see, you'll have plenty of opportunities to earn while you learn, so that you won't have to slave away in dead-end jobs that sap your strength.

Peter's head perked up. Twenty five grand was not exactly chump change. But having a salary like that meant that he would have to work a nine-to-five schedule. Unfortunately, his responsibilities as Spider-Man made that option impossible. And he would have to tell Connors why without compromising his secret.

"Professor, there is something you need to know about me," he said quietly. "I have certain . . . uh . . . community responsibilities that require me to be on call all the time and ready to respond at a moment's notice. I cannot tell you what those responsibilities are, but I can tell you that they preclude me from working a full-time job. If you like, I can work for you, freelance, like I do for the _Daily Bugle_. All you would have to do is pay me a fee for each report I generate. Would you be amenable to that sort of arrangement?"

Connors wondered what Peter meant by "community responsibilities." Perhaps he was attached to an EMS squad. The professor could not help but be impressed by his student's dedication to service. "Peter," he responded enthusiastically, "if that is the way you'd rather do it, then it's all right by me. We can meet to discuss the details as soon as you're through with finals."

Peter thought that this was a dismissal. He started to get up, but Connors held up his hand, signaling for him to remain seated. "Peter," he said, "everything we've talked about so far, the Master's Degree, the consulting work,will give you priceless opportunities to build up your curriculum vitae."

"To make me marketable for biotech companies?" Peter asked eagerly.

"No!" Professor Connors said emphatically. "You've got a bigger future than that. Much bigger. You need to have a different mind set. You won't be _working for_ biotech companies— you'll be _starting_ them. But you've got to build a rock-solid foundation first. In the Summer between your junior and senior years, you'll need to take the MCATS."

"The _medical school _entrance exams?" he asked.

"That's right. If you keep your grade point average up, and do well on the MCATS, then I'll be able to get you into Columbia."

"Columbia . . . _medical school_?" Peter was incredulous.

"That's right. . . . _COLUMBIA . . . MEDICAL . . . SCHOOL_." Connors replied, repeating each word slowly and with extra emphasis. Columbia University's College of Physicians and Surgeons was the top medical school in the world, according to the most recent U.S. News and World Report ranking, and had been for five years in a row. But oddly, it had never even been on Peter's radar screen. Despite all his academic accomplishments and science awards, despite his demonstrated brilliance, Peter still had trouble believing that his name and the words _Columbia Medical School_ belonged in the same sentence.

"They have an M.D.- Ph.D. medical research program that's second to none," Connors was saying. "You'll be a much more viable candidate for that program with a Master's degree, especially if you can earn it simultaneously with your bachelor's. With that on your record, as well as your consulting experience, you'll walk in ahead of thirty thousand other applicants. You'll get your medical degree _and_ a doctorate in an interdisciplinary biomedical specialty. And after you finish your residency, you'll be at the forefront of advances that will revolutionize medical science. _You'll be directing those advances_, Peter. The Nobel Prize itself will be within your grasp!"

Peter looked over at Mary Jane, who could not believe what she'd just heard. She could no longer suppress the laughter that was building up inside her. Her chest actually started to hurt as peals of laughter came ringing out of her.

"Uh . . . M.J. . . ." Peter said, his face getting red with embarrassment.

Dr. Connors looked at Peter. "Was it something I said?" he asked, wondering what the joke was.

"I'm sorry . . . Dr. Connors," Mary Jane said, pointing at Peter and trying to force the words out between bouts of mirth. "It's just . . . ha ha ha. . . before we came in here, he was so sure that you were going to flunk him. . . . And I said . . . 'he'll probably tell you to apply to medical school.' . . . I swear, that's exactly what I said . . . ha ha ha . . ."

"Is _that_ what you thought?" Connors asked Peter in disbelief.

"Well uh . . ." Peter was feeling a bit foolish. "Given my track record this semester, I thought it might be a distinct possibility, sir."

"Well Peter, either you're very modest, which is good, or you underestimate yourself, which is not. Either way, your lady friend is quite perceptive."

_My thinking exactly_, said Mary Jane to herself. _Peter's not the only one who hit the jackpot_. Her laughter subsiding, she asked Dr. Connors, "Excuse me Professor, but, assuming that Peter does get into Columbia, how long will it take him to finish the program?"

"Seven years, including his dissertation research and oral defense," Connors answered. "And after that, he'll have to commit to a four-year residency at a teaching hospital." Then he added, only half-jokingly, "I wouldn't plan on seeing too much of him after he's accepted."

"Let me ask you this, Dr. Connors," said Peter, taking over the discussion from Mary Jane, " Just how am I going to afford Columbia Medical School without ending up with a mountain of debt at the end?" Peter knew that an Ivy League education was an extremely expensive undertaking, and that residencies paid next to nothing.

"Peter, let me assure you that you will have no problems in that regard,"Connors answered confidently. "Columbia has a huge endowment, one of the largest in the world. Every student in that program is there on full scholarship, and is given a stipend large enough to live comfortably in New York City. Plus, you'll have far moreopportunities to earn money on the side through teaching and consulting than you'll have here. The people there are the tops in their fields. Companies and governments pay millions for their time and expertise. That would work out for you quite well, since you would've already been doing it for several years."

To Peter, this scenario was starting to sound too good to be true. After so many years of bad luck and hardship, were things really beginning to turn around? Was there really a place for him at the table of the medical elites? Or was it just a beautiful, wishful dream from which he would awaken to another day of drab reality?

Professor Connors was not through yet. "Oh, and by the way, Peter, I do have considerable clout over there," he said, anticipating a question that Peter hadn't thought of asking. It was common knowledge around campus that Connors had been an army surgeon, and that he'd lost his right arm to a piece of shrapnel in Viet Nam. After two purple hearts and an honorable discharge, he returned to Columbia for his Ph.D.

Continuing, he told Peter, "I've collaborated with or critiqued almost every member of their faculty. And I know Dr. Elizabeth Ross, the new director of the M.D.-Ph.D. program. I know her personally."

Peter's head snapped up and his eyes started glowing like lanterns. "Doctor Ross? You know Dr. Betty Ross? She's over there?" He was so excited that the words tumbled out of his mouth. Almost reflexively, Mary Jane felt a twinge of jealousy at seeing Peter react that way to the mention of another woman's name. But she realized immediately that she'd overreacted. After all, this was a senior academic who was probably twice Peter's age, and probably married.

"Yes I do, Peter," Connors answered. "Dr. Ross accepted her appointment last week. She'll be taking over this Summer. But tell me, how do _you_ know Dr. her?"

"The nanomeds," he replied. "I'd been following her work on the nanomeds since I was in high school. Both Dr. Ross and Dr Krenzler . . . I mean Banner. When I was at Midtown, I did a term paper on the nanomeds for my AP course in cellular biology. I asked them to critique it for me, and they liked it so much that they gave me letters of recommendation to Stanford. Dr. Connors, I'd give my right arm to be able to work under Dr. Ross. . ."

Mary Jane gave a little gasp.

Peter blanched, realizing too late what had just slipped out of his mouth.

"Oh, God . . . Dr. Connors, I'm sorry. . . I didn't mean that. . . ."

But Connors was not one to take offense where none was meant to be given. "It's all right Peter," he laughed. "I wouldn't expect you to follow in my footsteps _that_ closely!" He managed to put them both at ease, despite the gaffe.

Peter started to say something, but then his voice trailed off, and an expression of sadness covered his face. Dr. Connors understood, but Mary Jane looked at him questioningly. "M.J.," he told her, "there was an accident involving the nanomeds that turned Dr. Banner into . . . into the . . . Hulk." Apparently, Bruce Banner was yet another of Peter Parker's fallen idols. To Peter, "Hulk" was just another media moniker that some idiot like Jameson had tagged Dr. Banner with. He found it so offensive and lacking in dignity that he could barely utter the word.

The mere mention of the Hulk sent shivers down Mary Jane's spine. She'd heard news reports about that rampaging green giant and was grateful that it never showed up in New York. And Peter _knew_ the scientist who had become the Hulk? What if the Hulk wasn't lost, as everyone seemed to think? What if the Hulk ever came _looking_ for Peter? She knew without being told that not even Spider-Man could take on that creature—there were rumors that the Hulk had once hurled a fifty-ton battle tank a distance of nearly half a mile. It could probably chew up Spider-Man and spit out the rind. Catching herself, she put the brakes on that line of thought, wondering whether she was taking on too much of Peter's pessimism.

"But what happened to Dr. Banner was the result of an abnormally high dose of gamma radiation to which he was accidentally exposed, and well as his unique physiological and psychological make-up." Dr. Connors explained. "That Dr. Banner even survived the gamma exposure was proof enough that the nanomeds worked."

"What I would like to know," Peter responded, his other passion besides Mary Jane being fired up, "is whether the nanomeds could be refined to the point where they could become self-activating, so that we wouldn't need gamma radiation at all. If we could do that, we could eliminate over ninety percent of the risk and ninety eight percent of the costs. The nanomeds could one day become standard therapy for a wide range of illnesses and injuries."

Despite her total lack of interest in science, Mary Jane found herself fascinated by being in the middle of a high-level exchange between teacher and student. What's more, both sides of the conversation were being directed _at her_.

"The reason Dr. Ross accepted the appointment at Columbia was that their hospital had set up the nanomed apparatus in its emergency services center, and she wanted to oversee it." Dr. Connors continued. "They've made tremendous improvements since the Banner accident. They've had a few test cases, and so far, their success rate has been one hundred percent. Their first case was a stabbing victim that Spider-Man had brought in. She was all but dead from multiple knife wounds, and the nanomeds restored her completely back to health."

Peter glanced up reflexively, trying hard to remember who Dr. Connors was talking about. He had saved thousands of people by now, and could not remember one from the next. He noticed Mary Jane giving him a _you-never-told-me-that_ look. Fortunately, the significance of their silent exchange was lost on Professor Connors.

After another twenty minutes or so of banter back and forth with his star student, Connors glanced up at the clock on his wall. It read 11:37. "Well Peter," he said, "we wouldn't want to put poor Miss Watson here to sleep. Thank you for coming by." That _was_ a dismissal. "Remember, if you hold up your end of the bargain, I promise you that I will move heaven and earth to get you into that institution. I do not exaggerate when I say that _the future of humanity demands it_. And the very best to you, Miss Watson, in your thespian career."

"Thank you Dr. Connors. It was a privilege to meet you, sir." Mary Jane responded.

Connors held out his hand. Peter grasped and shook it vigorously. He was infused with a new sense of purpose, and new goals . . . goals that were far bigger than anything he'd ever contemplated before. As a biomedical researcher, he could find cures for diseases that ravaged humanity for centuries, save lives on a global scale—he could save more lives in one week than Spider-Man could in a whole lifetime. His determination to make a success of it was there in his eyes, visible for all to see. "Thank you for your trust in me, sir. I will commit to this, and I won't let you down. I promise."

"Good, Parker." Connors said, " now take the rest of the day off. You deserve a rest, but not too long. You still have finals to prepare for!" Mary Jane nodded her head in agreement. As they got up to leave, Connors remembered a couple of important details that he'd inadvertently omitted.

"Oh, and Parker, two more things. Columbia has a strong tradition of international collaboration. They expect applicants to be fluent in at least one foreign language. That means you'll need at least four semesters."

"Yes sir," Peter said, his heart sinking. Inside he was thinking, _On top of everything else?_ "And what's the second thing?"

The gentleness of Connors' tone belied the fact that it was a stern warning. "From now on, and especially when you get to Columbia, show up to class and don't be late! Dr. Ross won't tolerate excuses. She'll throw you out. There'll be thirty thousand people standing line waiting to take your place. Please keep that in mind."

"I understand, sir," Peter said seriously as he and Mary Jane left Connors' office. "And that won't happen, I guarantee it!"

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"M.J., are you hungry?" Peter asked as they walked out of _Science I_ and back onto the main quad.

"Now that you mention it . . . I'm starved."

They found a sandwich shop just off campus, a short distance from the arch. As they sat down, Mary Jane started chuckling again, teasing Peter about how he got himself all worked up over nothing. Lowering her voice a few octaves, she did a crude imitation of Peter's doomsday predictions: "This is it— He's gonna flunk me—I'm dead . . ." she laughed. Her giggling gave way to excitement. "Oh, Peter, I can't believe you thought he was really going to fail you! . . . I mean, Jesus, did you hear what he said? . . . _Columbia!_ Only God goes to Columbia!"

"I guess I'd be in good company, M.J." Peter joked.

"Don't be so modest!" Mary Jane giggled, finally settling down. "Hey, Tiger, I've got a suggestion for you."

"What's that?"Peter asked.

"If you have to take a foreign language, take Italian."

"Why?" he asked, somewhat puzzled.

She smiled, reached over and held his hand. "Now that you're a poet, you can serenade me with all those beautiful Italian love poems," she said lightly.

Peter thought about it for a moment. "Yeah, sure, why not?" he shrugged. He'd taken a year of Italian at Midtown, and had some familiarity with the basics. Ironically, at the time, the only reason he'd taken Italian was so that he could show Mary Jane how sophisticated he was. He still remembered how to say, _I love you_, and would no doubt have said it to her on a daily basis were it not for the intrusive presence of Flash Thompson.

"What did you think about what Dr. Connors said?" Mary Jane asked him, her voice taking on a more serious tone.

"About what, M.J.? He said a lot of things."

"About . . .you know . . . making a commitment?" she asked, a little nervously.

"Well, M.J., I think that commitment is very important. . ." Peter said nonchalantly. He shook his head. "I'm going to have to work very, very hard to get through that program. . ."

"Peter, I think you're missing the point," Mary Jane said, flashing her million-dollar grin and grasping his hands. Unbeknownst to her, he was missing the point deliberately. He had already made up his mind to pop the question, but did not want to do it in a deli of all places. As well, he wanted to wait until he had a ring to present her with.While they held hands, he secretly sized up the ring finger on her left hand. Jewelry shops were typically open on Sunday afternoons. Now, if he could just find a way to excuse himself without Mary Jane suspecting anything. . . .

_Your wish is my command_, said the spider to the man. The world abruptly slowed to a crawl. Mary Jane knew what Peter's ultra-fast head snap meant. She'd seen it before, in Ari's deli, just before Doc Ock threw a car at them. Her heart sank. No, . . . it ended up in her mouth this time.

Peter was all business now. "Stay here, don't move!" he ordered, and rushed outside. . . just in time to hear an explosion in the distance. His first thought was that it had to be a gas main break. He knew right away what he had to do. He did not hesitate. And this time, fortunately, he had his costume on.

He hurried back inside, pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and threw it down on the table in front of Mary Jane.

"M.J., I'm sorry, but I . . ." he started to say.

"It's okay, I understand," she said with a quiet smile. "Go . . . Move your ass!"

"Have lunch, and then get home. I'll call you!" he tossed back, already out the door, "And don't worry! I'll be fine." Thirty seconds later, a red-and-blue blur streaked by overhead. Mary Jane did not even bother to look for it. As she was watching the the happenings outside the window, a expression of deep concern on her face, a waitress came to take her order.

"Can I get you anything Miss?" the waitress asked, puzzled at why this woman's companion was in such a hurry to ditch her.

"Uh . . . no, thank you," she said, picking up the twenty and following Peter out the door. As she stepped outside, people were running in the direction of the explosion. She followed them, already smelling smoke. _Does he really expect me not to worry about him?_ she asked herself, somewhat incredulously.

_This one has to be a record-breaker_, thought Spider-Man as he moved rapidly through the burning building, looking for people. He had arrived long before the fire department's alarms had sounded. If there was ever a time when he needed eight arms, this was it. His hunch had been right. A gas main had blown in an assisted living facility. Many of the residents were elderly and bedridden, attached to IV tubes and oxygen tanks. He had to be extraordinarily careful to keep the oxygen away from the flames, lest the tanks explode in his hands. This problem, along with the thick black smoke, was impeding his progress through the conflagration. _Where the hell's EMS?_ he kept thinking impatiently.

Nevertheless, it was a truly heroic effort on Spider-Man's part. In less than an hour, he pulled twenty three patients and three staff members to safety. And this time, no one was left behind. When he was finished, he stood off to one side, trying to catch his breath as he surveyed the chaotic scene, and felt a quiet sense of satisfaction for a job well done. By now the fire department had arrived, and tons of water cascaded over the fire, drowning it. The EMS squad had also arrived, and were tending to the victims.

In the meantime, Mary Jane arrived on the scene, along with hundreds of others. They were kept away from the fire by police barricades. From her vantage point in the crowd, she caught a glimpse of Spider-Man just as he was bringing out the last victim, an old woman in a hospital gown. His costume was nearly black from the smoke and soot. Even the eye-pieces were partially obscured. He appeared to be stumbling, having trouble breathing. She wanted to go to him . . . to help him . . . to make sure he was all right. She started to push her way through the crowd, but then suddenly remembered that that would be the _last_ thing he would ever want her to do—at least while he was in uniform. She looked up just in time to see him fire a webline and take off.

"Way to go Spider-Man!" she shouted as he flew overhead. She couldn't help it. The people around her took it as their cue to start clapping, and before long, the entire crowd joined in sustained applause.

To herself, imperceptible to anyone else, she added, "Way to go, Peter!"


	7. L’Amo, Maria Giovanna

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**_Real Love_, ****© **1995-1996, Apple Corps Ltd./EMI Capitol Records

"**L'amo cosí," means, "I love you so," in Italian. **

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**VII**

**L'AMO, MARIA GIOVANNA**

Peter never even heard Mary Jane's shout or the applause that followed it. His mind was totally focused on the next task at hand.

Or more precisely, the task after the next task at hand. He returned to his apartment, slipping through his open window in order to avoid Ditkovitch's incessant shouts of "Rent!" During his flight, he lifted his mask above his nose and mouth so that he could breathe in fresh air. He had to be more careful around these fires, he cautioned himself. His lungs had nearly collapsed from all that smoke that he'd swallowed.

Peter slipped out of his uniform, showered, and got dressed in his ragged sweats. Then he hurried down to the laundromat to wash his costume. It turned out that there was no need to rush, since Ditkovitch and his family were out for the day.

He had to put the costume through the washer twice to get out the stains from the smoke and soot. He hunched over the machine to prevent the other people from seeing what it was that he was washing. When the cycle was over, he threw the costume into the dryer, not caring if it shrunk or not. He was in a hurry. After fifteen minutes, he stopped the cycle, yanked the still-damp costume from the dryer, tucked it under his arm, and hurried back upstairs. Then he put it back on, hating the feel of the moist spandex against his skin. He put his "civvies" on over his uniform: a white turtle-necked shirt, blue slacks and the new black leather jacket. Then he picked up his phone, but suddenly remembered that it had been disconnected. Amazingly, there was a dial tone this time. _Maybe things are starting to turn around_, he hoped.

He dialed Mary Jane's number and heard her familiar voice mail message: _Hi, it's me. Sing your song at the beep_. "Hi, M.J., its Peter. Everything's okay. I need to take care of a few things, but I'll be over at . . ." He glanced at his watch. "Between three and four, unless I get detained again." By now, she could probably figure out what that meant. "See you soon. Bye."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Mary Jane was immensely proud of what she had in her longtime friend and new lover. She felt like a gold prospector who'd stumbled onto the biggest mother lode in history and had to keep mum about it. Peter's miraculous powers made him the strongest, fastest, and most desirable man in the world. Those same hands that stroked her body so sensuously were powerful enough to rip apart a truck. But he was also a genius who would one day achieve extraordinary success in his own right, without help from a rich, influential father, like her previous suitors. On top of all that, he was kind, caring, sensitive, humble, modest and had a terrific sense of humor. In short, he was everything that she could ever desire in a man.

But he was so ordinary looking, and had such an unprepossessing demeanor, that most people who passed him on the street wouldn't give him a second thought. And that was just fine by her. She didn't want anyone else taking a peek beneath that benign, harmless-looking outer veneer of his. That would be her secret, and hers alone to guard, protect, and cherish.

As hot water cascaded down her head and shoulders, Mary Jane closed her eyes and pictured herself and Peter alone on a South Seas island, standing naked under a waterfall in a lagoon surrounded by lush tropical gardens. She lightly rubbed her breasts, feeling her nipples and areolae begin to swell as she imagined him caressing her all over with those electrical fingers of his. Moaning softly, she touched her belly button, discovering an erogenous zone she never knew she had. And as she reached down and coaxed herself toward climax, she imagined her lover depositing his seed deep inside her body, making her the mother of a new species of human being. Her moans grew louder. At the last second, she pulled back, not wanting to unleash her passions until they were together.

When she finished showering, she wrapped a large towel around her torso and a smaller one around her hair. She stepped out of the bathroom and played back the waiting voice-message. Her heart skipped a few beats as she listened. He would be over in a few hours which, to her, was an eternity. She saved the message, went back into the bathroom, and picked up her razor.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

It was not until he was ready to walk out his front door that Peter finally noticed the summons. Just before he left to visit Connors, he'd picked it up and put it on his desk, without looking closely at it. Now that he saw what it was, a feeling of panic momentarily constricted his throat. _My God, did Harry spill it already?_ He tore open the envelope . . . and breathed a sigh of relief. It was from the United States Immigration Court. He was to appear as a witness in the deportation hearing of one Rahi Aziz. _Mr. Aziz? The owner of Joe's Pizza? What could he possibly have done?_

He scanned the document looking for any other information that might be helpful. There was nothing, other than the address and telephone number of the immigration court and instructions for witnesses. The summons directed him to report to the federal building no later than nine o'clock on Monday morning. There was nothing else. Fortunately, the Federal Plaza was close to the N.Y.U. campus, so he wouldn't have any problems getting there. He put the summons down, making sure that it was burned into his memory before he walked out the door. The last thing he needed was a contempt-of-court citation. At the same time, he hoped that this hearing would not take too long. Finals were coming up.

Peter stopped at an ATM to transfer the funds he needed to buy an engagement ring for Mary Jane. Upon the death of Uncle Ben, Aunt May received a hundred thousand dollars from a life insurance policy. As a graduation present, May had given Peter twelve thousand dollars, and had told him repeatedly never to touch that money except in the most dire of emergencies. Unfortunately, Aunt May did not always make decisions that were in her best interests, especially with regard to financial matters. She had used up her share of the proceeds in trying to keep up with her payments, but had refused to let Peter help her out when she tried to get her mortgage refinanced, even when the need became painfully obvious. He vividly recalled the argument they'd had on the morning he took her to the bank.

_"Please Aunt May," Peter begged, "We're not talking about all of it, just enough to make sure you qualify for the loan. That's all."_

_"Peter, no!" his aunt shot back with an intensity that belied her frail appearance. "You need that money more than I do. I'll get by. Always have, you know."_

_Look, I know I'm struggling, but I haven't had to tap into it yet. If you just let me . . ."_

_"I said NO!" Aunt May shouted. "If you do not end this discussion right now, I'll ask you to leave."_

If only Aunt May had listened to him and taken the money, she would still be living in her house, Peter thought, regretful that he had not been more forceful. He found it so paradoxical that he could hold a wall up with his shoulders, yet be afraid of upsetting a fragile old lady. It distressed him when his aunt was so inflexible, yet he had to admit that her selfless stubbornness was the very thing he most admired about her. _If I could be half of what she is, I'll be all right_, he thought as he moved seven thousand dollars into his checking account. To date, it was the largest single transaction in which he'd ever engaged. He hoped that she wouldn't be too upset when she found out what he was going to spend the money on.

Two blocks from the bank, he found himself standing in front of a display case in Zale's - Greenwich Village. He scanned the rows of rings looking for the right one. He knew he would never be able to afford to give Mary Jane a ring the size of the one John had given her. But he would not do this on the cheap either—he wanted to get her a stone that symbolized the depth of his love for her.

"May I help you sir?" asked the elderly proprietor from behind the counter. He spoke with a strange brogue that sounded to Peter like a mixture of English and Dutch. A picture of South African diamond mines on the wall confirmed his national origin.

"Um . . . I want to buy an engagement ring," Peter told the gentleman, somewhat nervously. "I've got it narrowed down to these two, but I can't decide which one." He pointed to two rings near the bottom of the case. One had a round diamond while the other had a slightly smaller heart-shaped stone. The rings themselves were plain 24-karat gold bands.

"Excellent choices," the proprietor said with a smile. "Both about 1.3 carats, nice cuts. Either one would work, but let me show you something that will make your decision a little easier." He removed the heart ring from the case and held it in front of Peter for his inspection. "Look at the center of the stone. No matter which angle you view it from, you can always see a brilliant point of light deep inside. See?"

"Oh, yes . . . yes, I do," Peter responded enthusiastically.

"But that's not all," the man continued. "Fancy cuts like this heart typically cost about twenty five percent less than rounds of the same stone."

That sold Peter. "Do you have this in size four?" he asked.

"Let me see," The proprietor said as he took the ring to the office in the back of the store. A few moments later, he returned with the size that Peter had asked for.

"That will be six thousand, six hundred and seventy four dollars and twenty seven cents. Would you like to have this gift-wrapped?"

"Yes," Peter said, pulling out his debit card.

The proprietor punched in a new total. With the gift-wrapping, it came out to six thousand, six hundred and eighty one dollars and forth five cents.

Five minutes later, Peter was out of Zale's and on his way to Mary Jane's. As he passed a newsstand, his eye caught sight of a box of _Cracker Jacks_. He stopped and stared at it, his memory triggered. Suddenly an idea took hold. He purchased the _Cracker Jacks _and ran back to his apartment. Using a pen knife, he carefully opened the box, placed the ring inside, shook it up to ensure that the ring got lost amidst the caramel-covered popcorn and peanuts, and resealed the box so that it appeared to have not been opened. Then he wrapped the box in silver gift-wrap left over from Christmas. He suddenly regretted wasting his money on the ring-box, but he was sure that Mary Jane would love the way he was going to pop the question. He left his apartment for the second time that afternoon, confident that he would arrive at Mary Jane's on time for two days in a row.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

As Mary Jane went through her wardrobe, trying to figure out what she would wear for her second date with Peter, she remembered how turned on he'd been on the couch the previous evening. She selected her most provocative outfit: a very low cut pair of hip-hugging jeans and a designer t-shirt that had a gigantic pair of lips across the chest. The caption beneath the design said, _for your eyes only _in pink letters. The only thing she would wear underneath was pair of tiny white panties, the kind that were _meant_ to be easily removed. She had a whole drawer full of those, courtesy of Louise, who'd bought them for her as a honeymoon gift. But, until the previous day, she'd had no desire to wear them.

At four o'clock, her door chimes rang. Without even bothering to ask who it was, she opened the door and launched herself at her boyfriend, nearly knocking him backwards.

"What's this?" Peter asked mockingly, "not even a hello?"

"Hi," Mary Jane giggled as she pulled her beau into her apartment by his lapels and slammed the door. Before he could recover his bearings, she jumped into his arms, wrapped her legs tightly around his thighs, and kissed him hard on the mouth. The luscious scent of her strawberry perfume filled his nostrils as her tongue gently pried apart his lips and lightly brushed his teeth, beckoning his mouth to open and let her in. He enthusiastically obliged. The joy he felt at her lips being on his was so great that he did not let her feet touch the floor for at least five minutes.

"M.J. . ." Peter gasped.

"What?"

"You're . . . suffocating . . . me," he protested, trying to push the words out between the delicious french kisses she was giving him.

"I don't care! I love you!" she moaned softly as she continued to press her mouth against his, knowing how much he really liked being smothered by her. But a few seconds later, out of breath, she finally released her grip on him.

"There's something I gotta see," she panted, yanking on his collar. Sure enough, his costume was there. "Nice long johns."

"Comes with the territory, I'm afraid."

"Am I complaining?" she said softly, touching it. She looked back up at him. "It's wet."

"It itches like crazy," Peter revealed, "and rides up the crotch a lot, too."

She had a suggestion. "Why don't you take it off and let me run it through the dryer for you?"

"That's a great idea, M.J," he said. "Can I use your bathroom?"

"No."

"Why not?" Peter asked, somewhat mystified by her refusal to grant what he thought was a rather reasonable request. "I need to change."

"Because," she answered, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I want a bachelorette party!"

"You want me to pop out of a cake?" he quipped.

"No. Just out of your costume." She caressed his cheeks and lightly brushed her hips against his crotch.

"Okay," he said mildly, apparently surrendering without a fight.

"You'll _do_ it?" she asked, delighted that he was going to strip for her.

"Yeah, sure." he said, not even turning red.

_What a change in him_, thought Mary Jane. The Peter Parker she used to know would've frozen up at the mere thought of anything having to do with sex. That boy was gone. In his place stood a man who, outwardly at least, didn't seem to be afraid of anything. She decided to turn the heat up a little.

"Now, STRIP soldier!" she barked.

"Yes sarge!" he barked back, divesting himself of his "camouflage." When he was finished, he stood at attention and saluted. Without the gloves, boots, and mask, the costume reminded her of little kids' pajamas. She would've loved to take a picture of him holding a teddy bear.

"Get on with it!" she ordered with a giggle.

Fifteen seconds later, he was holding the costume in his hand, his clothes back on. The peep-show she'd been eagerly anticipating had been nothing more than a blur. "Can you show me where your dryer is?" he asked, a mischievous grin on his face.

She should have known that he'd find a way to trick her. "Peter Parker, you cheated!" she exclaimed, trying to force a pout. "I want my money back!"

"What can I say, M.J.?" he laughed as he fished the rest of his outfit from the pockets of his jacket. "The hand beats the eye every time."

"Just you wait, Mister," she said as she glided into his arms. "I'll fix your wagon but good before the night's through!"

"I certainly hope so." He grinned slyly as he put his arms around her and kissed her again, unable to get enough of her sweet, sensuous lips puckering against his.

"What settings?" she asked as she took the costume from him and placed it in her dryer.

"Delicate— about a half hour." A second later, the dryer started whirring.

Meanwhile, Peter produced a small box from the inside breast pocket of his jacket and put it in her hands. It was covered by silver gift-wrap. Yet there was no card, and no bow.

She started to open the box, but Peter apparently had other ideas.

"Hold off," he said with a smile. "I'll tell you when the time is right."

"Ooookay," she said, carrying the box into her bedroom and putting it on her night stand, not thinking to question him about why she had to wait.

In the middle of her living room, amidst soft music and softer lighting, the two of them slow-danced until sundown. Mary Jane was a big music afficionado. She had a large CD collection of soft rock and slow tunes spanning the last fifty years. They danced to everything, from _Unchained Melody_ to _Stairway to Heaven_, all the way through to the present. Holding Mary Jane close, taking in her perfume's titillating fragrance, fanned the flames of Peter's desire, flames that had been burning for so long he could hardly remember a time when he didn't feel them. As they slowly turned and glided around her living room, he slipped his hands beneath her t-shirt and gently massaged her back and her stomach. Aroused by both his soft touch and the electric tingling, she whispered to him. "I would really like to show you the rest of the apartment."

She took him by the hand and led him into her bedroom. It was sparsely furnished, but there was a nice queen-size bed, a decorative night stand, and a dresser with a few stuffed animals sitting on top of it. To create a more intimate atmosphere, she set the dimmer down about half way and tuned the clock-radio to a soft-rock station.

"Nice digs," Peter said softly, pinching himself to make sure that he wasn't dreaming.

She motioned him onto the bed and he obliged. The mattress was firm and very comfortable. She sat down next to him.

"Peter, I want you to massage my back again," she whispered hungrily as she turned her body away from him and removed her t-shirt, "my _whole_ back this time." She lay face down, nude above the hips. Her jeans were low enough to give Peter a tantalizing glimpse of the tops of her buttocks.

His heart pounding as rapidly as a jackhammer, he did as she asked, starting at her ass, gently kneading her lower back, working his way up to her waist, her shoulder blades, her shoulders, and finally, to the back of her neck.

"How's this M.J.?"

"Really good Pete, really good." she responded softly, straining to keep from giggling. It was more than really good. It was fabulous. She had never had such stimulating massages as she'd received in the last two days. Whatever it was that helped him scale skyscrapers was magnifying many-fold the erotic effects of his touch. His charged fingers, lightly touching the skin of her arms, neck, and back, were driving her crazy with desire, just as they'd done the night before.

"Maybe you should quit school and become a masseuse, honey." she teased. "Rich women would pay thousands for this."

"Good idea, M.J., except that Connors would blow a gasket. Besides," he added slyly, "would you really want me doing this for anybody else?"

She thought it over quickly. "Naaaaaaahhhh." Then she asked, "Want me to return the favor?"

Peter's excitement, already in overdrive, rose yet another notch at the thought of her hands intimately touching him. "Er . . .uh . . .um . . . can you?" he stammered.

"I've got a little magic of my own," she whispered seductively. "Lie down on your back,"

"My back?" Peter asked in surprise, "but I thought you wanted . . ."

"Yeah, on your back," she said as she turned towards him, "Now, take your shirt off and lie down. You have to take your shirt off for me to do this." Her breasts bounced enticingly as she shifted her position and helped him pull off his turtle neck.

For at least ten seconds, Mary Jane just sat there, doe-eyed, marveling at Peter's physique as he lay beneath her, bare-chested. She could not believe that this was the same person that Flash Thompson used to refer to contemptuously as _Puny Parker. _She savored his tightly defined pectorals, muscular arms and shoulders, and washboard stomach. She lightly stroked his chest and shoulders. He was rock-hard and taut all over, as though his skin was stretched over steel. _Hot steel!_ she thought in anticipation.

"Peter," she said softly, "can you show me where that spider bit you?"

"You figured that out, huh?" he said, impressed, and pointed to a spot on his right hand, about half way between his thumb and forefinger. "Right there." There was nothing to mark the spot, not even the tiniest of scars. It had long since healed. That was too bad, Mary Jane thought, because there now was no boo-boo that she could kiss.

She stroked his hand, noticing that the bottom of his palm was slightly enlarged. "Don't touch," he cautioned gently as she held his hand closer for inspection.

"Is that your trigger?" she asked. He nodded.

"How 'bout letting me see the rest of it," she asked coyly, tracing a line along his wrist with a finger until she arrived at the spot where his spinneret was. There was another slight bump, at the center of which was a star-shaped slit. It was barely noticeable. In its center a tiny, pearl-like drop of web fluid glistened. She licked the webbing, then pulled back. It tasted bitter.

Teasingly, she moved her lips up along his arm, causing him to shiver. When she arrived at his shoulders, she kissed and bit them in the hopes of leaving a hickey. She did, but to her chagrin, the flower-shaped mark faded immediately, giving her a first-hand demonstration of his recuperative powers.

Next, she kissed his neck and worked her way up to his ear, nibbling on it as if it were her favorite snack. A soft moan escaped from him as her tongue explored the inner recesses around his eardrum. He turned his face toward hers, and their lips met for a long, drawn-out, open-mouthed kiss. Her long strawberry tresses fell over his head, covering it like a curtain.

Maneuvering back down, she ran her fingers across his pecs, this time more slowly. Then she began kissing his nipples, her tongue flickering over them, tasting the salt. She delighted in watching Peter struggle to maintain an outward air of nonchalance as she continued her relentless assault on his willpower. Turning her attention to his six-pack abdominals, she delicately pressed her lips and tongue against each one, starting from the uppermost and slowly working her way toward his belt. By the time she got there, he was coming apart at the seams, and she knew it.

She smiled exultantly as she rubbed the swollen member hidden inside his trousers. "My, my, we're really growing down there, aren't we, tiger," she giggled softly, the lust in her sparkling eyes unmistakable as she nibbled around his fly. He inhaled abruptly as he felt his pants being undone and her long, slender fingers lightly touching his black briefs.

"Somehow, I'd always pegged you as a boxers kind of guy," she remarked.

"Surprise," he managed to say, amazed that he was still coherent.

"I'll say," M.J. agreed, a wicked smile lifting the edges of her mouth. He held his breath, but she wasn't quite ready to see the most intimate parts of his anatomy. She wanted him to prolong her own arousal first.

"Touch me Pete," she whispered, "touch me and kiss me all over, like I just did with you." A tremor ran through his body as he maneuvered around the bed to get on top of her. Slowly, he moved up and down across the front of her body, using his hands, lips and tongue to caress her throat, her chest and her stomach. He kissed her breasts, letting his tongue gently stimulate her areolae while he touched her midriff. Her hips started to thrust up and down like a piston, her desires fueled as much by his kisses as his electrical fingers. "Oh Peter, that turns me on soooohhhh much!" she purred as his tongue explored her belly button. Suddenly, she grabbed his head with both hands and gently pushed it downward. "Kiss me down there!" she begged. In response, he undid her zipper, pulled her jeans down, and peeled back her panties, exposing red pubic hair that had been neatly sculpted into the shape of a heart. Her hips rocked faster, causing the heart to undulate. She was ready . . . but he was not.

His head snapped up. Her panties snapped back.

Mary Jane stiffened with surprise.

_Now what? _she thought, anxious and exasperated that he was going to cut it off again, just as her arousal was reaching its peak.

"You're still a virgin, aren't you?" Peter asked quietly.

Stunned, Mary Jane bolted upright.

"Yes, but . . . you knew?"

"I had a hunch. I just want to make sure that this is really what you want, okay?"

She was relieved that he did not have some previously undiscovered intimacy problem. "Peter, believe me, if I didn't want this to happen, you would not be in my bed," M.J. told him candidly. "But that's why I'm so crazy about you—you're the only man I ever dated who cared enough to ask." She wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. "To be honest though, I was never really that hung up about keeping my virginity intact. It's just that I never really felt aroused in any of my relationships . . .until now."

Peter's eyebrows went up. That really surprised him. "Not even with Flash?" he asked, recalling how jealous he felt whenever he saw Mary Jane with that merciless bully . . . and how he practically jumped for joy when he found out that they broke up.

"Are you kidding?" Mary Jane laughed a little harshly. "Especially not with Flash! He was a neanderthal, a pig who couldn't keep his damn paws off me! At the senior prom, he slobbered all over me and kept putting his hand inside the slit of my gown! It was so embarrassing! Then he wanted to take me to Rockaway Beach to watch the sun rise, and probably to thrash around on the sand, but I just said, 'no Flash, just take me home.' " Peter knew she'd gone to the prom with Flash, but never figured that she had such a lousy time. He gave her a look of sympathy as she went on. "With Harry, I guess the best way to describe it is like trying to send a hundred watts through a 25-watt bulb. And John . . ." She paused, obviously still feeling guilty over the circumstances of their break-up. "With John, I guess I wanted it to be there, but it never really was."

Mary Jane was anxious to put those chapters of her life behind her and did not want to continue that discussion. But Peter's observation had piqued her curiosity. "Are _you_ still a virgin?" she asked, pretty much knowing the answer but wanting to hear him admit it.

"Yes, " he answered, almost with pride, "and you're the only one I ever thought about surrendering it to."

"But what would you have done if I'd gone ahead and married John?" she asked, her eyes widening in amazement at this new revelation.

Peter shrugged. "I dunno. Probably become a priest, or a monk . . . something like that."

Mary Jane's whole face glowed. Tears started to form in her eyes. "Oh Peter," she said, a choking sound escaping from her throat, "that's . . .so . . . sweet." She was so moved that she was at a loss for words. Women all over the city, many of them more beautiful than she was were enamored of Spider-Man. Over the last two years, she'd heard hundreds of them tell Eyewitness News how much they wanted to get inside his tights. _And he could have had any of them, had he so chosen!_ But he only wanted her. And if he couldn't have her, he wouldn't have anyone. No one else had ever made her feel that special.

Peter drew a deep breath as he glanced over at the silver-wrapped box on Mary Jane's night stand. "It's time," he whispered nervously in her ear.

"For what?" she asked, intrigued, as he reached over her to retrieve the box.

"For you to open your present," he whispered as he placed it lovingly in her hands.

She eagerly tore off the paper. Peter was amused to see that M. J. was not sentimental about gift wrap. Her expression changed from excitement to bewilderment when she saw what it was that Peter had wrapped so nicely.

"A box of _Cracker Jacks_?" It was her favorite candy when she was a kid.

"M.J.," he said, "do you remember the first time we ever spoke to each other?"

Mary Jane blinked, puzzled by the sudden change of topic. "Well, I uh . . . when we moved into Forest Hills?" she guessed.

"Close," he responded. "It was the first day of school. We were riding home on the bus and you were crying because you lost that box of _Cracker Jacks _your mom packed for you."

The details of that long-forgotten encounter filtered up from her subconscious. "Peter, we were in the first grade. You _remember_ that?"

"I never forgot it. Don't you know what I said?" he asked as he tousled her hair. She shook her head.

"I said that I would find it for you."

"Oh, come on," she said skeptically, "you're not going to tell me that this is the _same_ box, are you?"

He did not answer. He just leaned over and kissed her.

"Hey Pete," she asked as she opened the box, "Do you remember the _Cracker Jacks_ jingle?

"Sure." They sang it together. _"Candy-coated popcorn, peanuts and a prize. That's what you get in Cracker Jacks._" He was pleasantly surprised to discover that she had a good singing voice.

"Would you like some?" she asked invitingly. He held out his hand so that she could pour him some of the mixture. When she lifted the box away, he picked up a peanut and motioned for her to open her mouth. She did, and he fed it to her.

She gave him the box, and he, in turn, poured some into her hands. She fed him one of the popcorns as their eyes met. It was an incredibly erotic moment for both of them. They kept pouring and feeding each other until, when the box was almost empty, something else fell into Mary Jane's palm.

"Oh, look M.J." he said, smiling slightly in anticipation of her reaction. "There's your prize." When she saw what it was, she jerked her head up and gasped.

"Oh, My God, Peter is this . . . ?"

"It sure is. Do you have any idea how many boxes I had to go through before I found it?" And, in a sudden burst of confidence, Peter grabbed the ring, did a midair somersault, landed on the floor, and started to get down on one knee. But in his haste he'd forgotten to zip up his pants. They dropped while he was still airborne, revealing the tiny briefs that showed off his muscular frame so well.

"Oops. Wait a second . . . uh . . . sorry Mary Jane," he blushed, pulling his pants up, embarrassed at his own klutziness during such an important moment. Mary Jane started to laugh hysterically at the prospect of Peter proposing to her with his pants down. She completely forgot about her own state of undress.

Recovering, Peter still managed a graceful kneel-down. "Will you marry me, Mary Jane Watson?" he asked as he gently slipped the ring onto her finger. He'd guessed right—it was a perfect fit.

Mary Jane still couldn't stop laughing. Actually, she was laughing and crying at the same time. Tears of joy flowed from her eyes as she threw her arms around him. She hugged him so tightly that he wondered if she would squeeze his guts out. "Are you kidding me ya big dope?" she sobbed happily, pulling her own pants back up, but not zipping them. "Of course I'll marry you! I love you so much Peter Parker! You're the only man who makes me feel like I can reach up to the sky and grab the stars! I've never had that with any one before, and I don't ever want it to end! I really, really . . . _really_ love you! And I can't wait to be your wife!"

She squeezed his hand, hard, . . .and in the wrong place. Startled, she jumped as a webline shot out of his wrist and knocked the lamp right off her night stand. Thanks to her plush carpet, however, the lamp did not break.

"Mary Jane, didn't I tell you not to touch me there!" Peter kidded her.

_So that's how it works,_ she thought."After we're married, can you spin us a web like the one you did on the pier?" she joked, "it would sure make for some really raunchy sex."

Peter chuckled, rolling his eyes in mock dismay. "Oh great! I've fallen in love with an arachnophile."

"Arachno . . . what?"

"Someone who's got a thing for spiders."

Mary Jane giggled. "Awwwww Peter, that's so disgusting . . . but I like it."

"You know M.J.," he said as they took off each other's pants and nestled under the covers, "you get a really great deal out of this."

"How's that, tiger?"

"You can marry me and two-time with Spider-Man without ever feeling guilty."

"Are you implying that I am of questionable moral character, sir?" Mary Jane giggled, feigning indignation in Cecily mode.

"Well, to tell you the truth my dear, I much prefer not to give you an answer," he responded playfully in a pseudo-British accent, finally nailing Algernon down. "To give a truthful answer under circumstances such as this might not be prudent as it could very well lead to massive bodily contusions."

That sounded like a "yes" to Mary Jane. "Oh, you . . ." she said as she affectionately whacked him with her pillow.

As they lay in bed together, cuddling each other, Mary Jane held up her left hand, admiring her new engagement ring.

"Do you like it?" he asked tenderly.

"Yes, but . . .how could you afford it?"

He told her about his uncle's life insurance policy. Once more, M.J. felt the tickle of tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. The fact that he was willing to spend half his life savings on a ring spoke volumes about the depth of his commitment to her, and affirmed yet again that she had made the right choice. The diamond that John had given her was twice its size, and had probably cost somewhere in the high five-figure range, but Mary Jane suspected that John's father had fronted him the money. He could never have afforded a ring like that on just an Air Force Officer's salary.

She looked into her lover's warm blue eyes and smiled. He smiled back.

"Hey tiger," she whispered, "can you do that massage thing again?"

"What massage thing?" he asked, pretending not to know what she was talking about.

"You know," she cooed, "that electric thing you do with your fingers that leaves me tingling all over . . ."

"Oh, that," Peter said casually. "You know M.J., I think you're starting to become a nymphomaniac. I don't want to be responsible for corrupting your morals."

"Since I haven't had a sex life, I have no morals to corrupt. . ." She stopped, realizing that, as usual, it didn't quite come out the way she'd intended. "You know what I mean," she blushed.

Peter relented at the sight of a rosy hue spreading across her lovely face. "Well, all right. Would you like another back rub?"

"Not exactly." M.J. got up and turned her light off. Then she climbed back into bed and lay next to him, placing his hand on her navel. "Start there," she whispered, her voice becoming seductive.

He lightly rubbed her belly button, working his way outward in concentric circles. She must have felt the effects immediately, because she suddenly jerked upward and started to moan and giggle at the same time. _Good Lord_, he mused happily, _she must really be enjoying this_.

"Lower Pete," she gasped, "lower." She helped him take her panties off, moaning louder as his hands got closer and closer to where she wanted them to go. Her hips began to gyrate as he gently played with her clitoris, which was now distended and throbbing. She threw back her head and screamed in delightful agony as the tiny electrical surges in his fingers fired the sensitive nerves in her genitalia, stimulating her entire body from head to toe.

Totally aroused, Mary Jane reached under the blanket and ripped away his briefs. "Jesus Peter," she panted. "You're huge! Now I know you love me!" She locked her legs around him and drove her pelvis into his loins, crying out in ecstasy while her hand guided him in. Their bodies thrashed wildly together as long-suppressed passions crashed through self-imposed inhibitions like water bursting through a dam. The peak of their mutual climax lasted for well over a minute. Mary Jane felt a tingling sensation all over as Peter's life essence became a part of her. And what amazed Peter even more than making love to the woman he once considered unattainable was that she had longed for this moment as much as he had. As their arousal ebbed, they held each other closely and looked deeply into each other's eyes, knowing that their last remaining links to childhood were gone forever.

To Peter's list of attributes, Mary Jane added, _fantastic in bed_.

"You okay M.J.?" Peter asked his newly-minted fiancée as he somehow managed to find his voice again.

"Oh yes, Peter," she whispered. "This is so far beyond anything I'd ever imagined. I . . ." She cocked her head and listened. The Beatles' _Real Love_ was being played on the radio. She sang along with John, Paul, George, and Ringo: "_All my little plans and schemes . . .Lost like some forgotten dream . . .Seems that all I really was doing . . . Was waiting for you . . . No need to be alone . . . It's real love, it's reeeeeeeal, yes it's real love_, _, it's reeeeeeeal_ . . ." She stroked his face as she sang.

"I guess that song says it all, doesn't it?" he asked, thrilled beyond measure at being serenaded by his beloved red-haired siren.

"Yes," she whispered, lightly caressing his chest, her fingers twirling whatever hairs she could find. There weren't many.

"I never knew you were such a screamer, Mary Jane," Peter teased her gently.

She smiled and dropped her eyes, still feeling a little overwhelmed. "Neither did I."

"You may want to tone it down a bit, so that your neighbors won't think you're being raped or something."

"Oh, no need to worry about that," she reassured him. "The walls in this building are two feet thick." She paused for a minute, then added, "But if you're that concerned about it, maybe we can spend tomorrow night at _your_ place."

"Forget it M.J.," Peter said emphatically, his ocean blues twinkling at her. "You've seen that place yourself. It's a rat hole. Besides, the walls there are paper-thin. Everyone in the building would hear us, and Ditkovitch would have me arrested for disturbing the peace."

Suddenly, he tensed up. Something else came to his mind. Something far more worrisome than the noise. "M.J.," he asked in concern, "are you practicing birth control?"

"Oops," she said, demurely lowering her lashes.

Peter almost hit the ceiling—literally. He jumped up off the bed and came within inches of striking his head on her light fixture. _How could I __be so goddamn stupid, not wearing a condom! _he thought frantically.

Mary Jane was amused at his extreme reaction. "Take it easy, tiger," she laughed. "I was only kidding. I'm on pills."

"Jesus M.J.," Peter gasped. "Don't even joke about a thing like that! You really rattled me there."

"That _was_ the idea, sweetheart." she said, a hint of laughter still giving a lilt to her voice. "I just wanted to see if there was anything that _can_ rattle you."

"There is, believe me," Peter replied seriously.

"Like what?" she asked softly, tracing circles on his chest with her finger.

"Losing you."

"Ditto. . . . what else?"

Peter thought for a moment. "Facing Bruce Banner when he's angry."

"That's a good answer," she said. "Anything else?"

Peter gave her a sly look. "Aunt May finding out that we slept together."

"Would she still like me?" Mary Jane asked, blowing softly into his ear. "Or would she think that I've corrupted her sweet, upstanding, innocent little nephew?"

"I would definitely say the latter," he deadpanned.

"Heeeeeeyyyyy." She playfully pounded his shoulders, then let him gather her in his arms for another long, satisfying kiss. As he cuddled her, she felt that magical part of his body pressing against her thigh.

"Hey Pete," she giggled, "why are men like the Hulk?"

"I have no idea," he murmured, distracted by her alluring curves, the sweetness of her soft skin, and the captivating scent of _Emma Rose_ strawberry perfume.

"Because whenever they get excited, they just GROW!" Her giggling turned to laughter at her own joke.

"Aww, M.J.," Peter said, barely able to keep a straight face himself, "that is _really _awful! As Aunt May would say, 'Shame on you!' "

"Okay, okay. It was a bad joke, I admit it." Nibbling on his ear again, she asked coquettishly, "Does the big boy want to play some more?"

Peter didn't say a word. He just smiled. At that, Mary Jane slid down and flickered her tongue over the most sensitive spot on his anatomy. The unbearably erotic sensation excited him so much that he shifted around in order to kiss her down below while he caressed her backside with his magic fingers.

They made love a second time, and then a third. Mary Jane was sure that no other woman in the world had ever experienced this level of intensity during sex. Finally, their passions spent, they laid back in each other's arms. She rested her head on his shoulder while he gently stroked her cheek and ran his fingers through her hair. Feelings of closeness, contentment and long-sought peace settled over them.

"I love you," Peter said to Mary Jane as he hugged her. "I just can't stop saying it."

"And I just can't stop hearing it," Mary Jane whispered. "Tell me again, tiger." He kept repeating it, giving her a kiss each time, until they both started to drift off.

It was close to midnight by the time they finally fell asleep. Just before he closed his eyes, Peter looked up at Mary Jane's window. The light of a full moon was shining through the blinds. _Thank you_, he said to God once again for sparing him the consequences of his foolish decision to let her go.

Three hours later, he awoke, feeling surprisingly refreshed, as if he had slept the whole night through. He got out of bed, refusing to allow himself to think about how much he wanted to be with Mary Jane when she woke up. There was still a job to be done, a job that only he could do.

Swiftly, he put his costume on and wrote Mary Jane a note, explaining that he had to "make his rounds." and telling her about the upcoming court appearance. He finished with, _I'll call ASAP_, and left the note on her night stand. Just before he slipped away into the night, he whispered into her ear, in a voice that was barely audible, "L'amo cosí, Maria Giovanna Watson-Parker."

It was too dark for him to see the corners of Mary Jane's mouth move slightly upward.


	8. Conversation

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**The quote at the beginning of the second section of this chapter is taken, verbatim from: Greg Cox, _Daredevil_, (New York, Penguin Putnam, Inc. 2003), p. 248. The _New York Post _is a real newspaper, but the article and its author are fictitious. **

**_SEC_ refers to _Securities and Exchange Commission_, the United States government agency charged with protecting investors from stock market manipulations.**

**_DA_ refers to District Attorney.**

**In the parlance of clandestine operations, the term "Mechanic" means hired assassin.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**VIII**

**CONVERSATION**

Harry Osborn, like Peter Parker before him, was forced to assume adult responsibilities at far too early an age. Here he was, an orphan at twenty, and already the chairman of a major defense contractor. But Harry was also a man in turmoil. The revelations that his best friend was his sworn enemy and that his own father once tried to kill him had turned his world completely upside down and left him clinging to sanity by the barest of threads. Without psychotherapy, he could not reconcile those two realities. All he could do to keep from slipping over the edge was to focus his mind on his work.

Despite Norman Osborn's reign of terror as the Green Goblin, or perhaps because of it, _Oscorp_ had been left to him in great shape. With no debts, huge cash reserves, and a market capitalization of over seventy billion dollars, the company was poised to become a major global powerhouse in nearly every significant emerging technology market. But the Octavius affair was a disaster. The lawsuits that were springing out of that catastrophic first demonstration had threatened to drain the company's reserves, which, in turn, sent the stock price plummeting from $110 to $65 a share.

For nearly thirty hours since his return from Mary Jane's wedding that wasn't, Harry had been reviewing settlement proposals, earnings data and SEC filings, and had been in conference calls with lawyers, investment bankers and senior vice presidents. The open terrace doors let in the sounds of the city and the aromas of his rooftop garden. The fresh air circulating throughout the penthouse gave him some much-needed stress relief as he hunched over the big desk . . . _his_ big desk. Whatever sleep he got came from nodding off in his chair.

Harry could have followed the advice of his father's associates that he sell the company and live like a jet-setter. They obviously thought he didn't have what it took to run an organization like _Oscorp_., and that he was nothing more than a spoiled little rich kid, destined to live entirely off the fruits of his father's labors. But unlike Norman, who was first and foremost a scientist, Harry had been blessed with a natural talent for business, a talent that his father had never even recognized, let alone nurtured. Had Harry not been obsessed with revenge, he might have acknowledged what he implicitly understood . . . that his father's passing was giving his talents an opportunity to blossom that they would not otherwise have had. And with two years of on-the-job training under his belt, he was poised to prove to those sons of bitches once and for all that could make _Oscorp. _into something on the order of an _Exxon-Mobil_, an _IBM_, or a _General Electric_.Otto Octavius was merely a bump in the road, a learning experience that would lay the groundwork for future success.

As Harry waded through complex SEC documents, he felt nothing but contempt for all those passive investors who moved their money in and out with the rise and fall of the share price, and who lacked the vision to see things through the long haul. All this useless paperwork, all the thousands of dollars and manhours spent to give these idiots reassurances, and still, they fled at the first sign of trouble, just like sheep. It was unfair. . .no, it was downright insane that these morons could dictate to him which projects to pursue, which plants to build, and which companies to buy. Once he could complete his father's plans for taking the company private, he would be freed of this massive burden and would not have to deal with them anymore. The falling share price would give him the opportunity to recapture all the outstanding shares at bargain-basement rates. In the meantime, he would move ahead with his strategy for restoring _Oscorp. _to its former glory.

He thumbed through the report entitled, _Acquisition Targets_. High on his list of priorities were _Quest Aerospace_, his father's principal rival, and a California company called _Atheon_, which, like _Oscorp._, had done highly classified work in human performance enhancement. According to the report, _Atheon_ personnel were involved in that Hulk business out at Desert Base, and there had been casualties. No matter. _Atheon_ held valuable patents which, when put together with _Oscorp.'s _existing assets, would yield massive synergy and huge profits.

His next priority was to find a new headquarters for _Oscorp. _That one was a no-brainer—it would be the _Fiskcorp_ building. How strange that his father's former business rival and sometime partner turned out to be the biggest crook in New York City, perhaps even the country. He had been to _Fiskcorp_. once, while his father and Mr. Fisk were negotiating a complex R&D deal that turned out to be extremely lucrative for both. He was only eight years old at the time, but he remembered everything about that day as if it were last week: the glass and water walls, the wet bar, the size of Mr. Fisk's hands as he reached down and patted little Harry on the shoulder, promising that if he worked hard and kept his nose clean, he too could be successful. He doubted that his father ever knew the truth about Wilson Fisk. But then again. . . who did?

This would be a steal, Harry thought smugly. In typical fashion, the city was putting the _Fiskcorp._ Building on the market for a fraction of what it was worth, figuring that it would make up in tax revenue what it would lose on the sale. He left a voice mail message with his real estate manager to get on it immediately.

Overwhelmed and in need of a break, he walked out to his terrace garden. carrying a half-finished bottle of Cutty Sark in one hand, and a copy of the _Daily Bugle_ in the other. He was grateful for the scotch. It helped him to avoid having to face issues he couldn't deal with. On the other hand, it also made him receptive to his father's visits, which were becoming more and more frequent. At first, Harry thought he was losing his mind, but after a while, he'd come to accept that he had some sort of psychic capability that enabled him to perceive what others could not.

Sure enough, as he sat on a recliner to watch Sunday disappear over the horizon, he heard the cackle that signaled his father's imminent arrival. Norman Osborn stood near the foot of the recliner, dressed in his customary black sport shirt and slacks. Harry guessed that red was no longer in vogue where his father now resided.

"_Have you read the paper today?"_ Norman asked in his usual condescending tone. _"You made the news."_

Harry picked up the _Bugle_ and saw nothing pertaining to him or the company on the front page.

"_Page thirty two."_

The headline in the middle of the back page read: DA Announces Grand Jury Probe of Oscorp. Harry's expression remained calm as he read the story. Apparently the damage caused by Doc Ock's second fusion experiment had run into the hundreds of millions of dollars. The city had applied for federal disaster relief, but the grant wouldn't cover more than a fraction of the clean-up costs. An _Oscorp _spokesman told reporters that the company had severed all ties to Otto Octavius after the first demonstration, and that Octavius had stolen the tritium for the second experiment from Harry Osborn's office. But the DA wasn't buying it. She was hell-bent on finding evidence linking _Oscorp_ to that catastrophe. And if she ever found out about the Spider-Man-for-tritium deal that Harry and made with Doc Ock, the city would sue _Oscorp _for everything it was worth . . . and probably bring him up on charges of attempted murder.

Not wanting to jeopardize the company's value any further, and with it, the size of the city's potential recovery, the DA wisely waited until Saturday morning, when the markets were closed, before quietly announcing the probe. That ensured that the disclosure would not make the front page, and that its impact on _Oscorp's_ share price would be minimal.

"_They're looking for a deep pocket to take the fall, and you're it." _Norman said, his voice dripping with icy sarcasm_. "Congratulations, son._ _You've extended our losing streak, big time."_

Harry tried to defend his decision to back Octavius. "Dad," he protested, "you know you would have done the exact same thing. Otto was one of the top physicists in the world! I went with Otto to show those Wall Street bastards that nothing had changed with _Oscorp_, that we're still not afraid to take chances on high risk stuff! I was trying to protect your legacy, dammit!"

"_Yes, you're right."_ Norman admitted reluctantly._ "You did take a risk, and I am proud of you for that. If it was me, I probably would have done exactly what you did."_ At least Norman was acknowledging something positive about him. Harry's instincts had been right, but with Octavius, he'd punched the wrong ticket. Harry was gratified that, for once, his father appreciated that he'd showed some gumption. It's too bad that Norman never lauded him like this while he was alive, he reflected morosely. As it was, Harry wasn't sure whether the praise was coming from his father, or from himself.

"_But that isn't what I'm talking about."_ Norman continued. _"You need to deal with this grand jury probe right away. If they find out that you gave Octavius the tritium for the second experiment, they'll hit us with a judgment so high that the company won't survive! You won't save my legacy, you'll destroy it! Harry, you can't disgrace me like this!"_

Was Harry imagining it, or was Norman's voice starting to take on overtones of urgency? "What are you worried about, Dad?" he asked, trying to sound reassuring - as if a ghost really needed reassurances. "I've got the best legal talent in New York working on this, and they all assured me that the city's got no case! Everyone knows that _Oscorp. _cut Otto off after the first demonstration. I'll just tell the grand jury that he stole the tritium, which is exactly what happened."

"_Really?"_ The way Norman said it made Harry feel like he was being cross-examined.

"There were no witnesses."

"_You're wrong, Harry. There was one witness."_

Harry should have known that any conversation he had with his father would inevitably return to the one subject he didn't want to discuss. There was a part of Harry Osborn that still regarded Peter Parker as his best friend, that wanted to reach out, patch up their differences, and embrace Peter as a brother once again. But that part always wound up taking a back seat whenever his father showed up.

"Pete won't testify."Harry said, reasonably certain of his convictions. "Because if he did, he'll have to reveal his identity. And you know damn well he'd never do that."

That Harry could still feel any affection for Peter seemed to stick in his father's craw. _"How can you possibly be so goddamn naive, Harry?"_ Norman snapped. _"You know how Peter thinks—you've known for a long time. He is governed by simplistic ethics that see no middle ground between right and wrong, between good and bad. Once he gets wind of the grand jury probe, he WILL find a way to testify without compromising his secret. And when he does, it will be the end of Oscorp! The ONLY way to prevent that from happening is to silence Parker! Silence him forever."_

"Dad," Harry said softly, but firmly. "I can't. He's invincible. Nobody can take him out. Even you couldn't!"

"_Why not?"_ Norman retorted, angry at Harry's display of weakness and lack of resourcefulness, and totally oblivious to his son's reminder of his ultimate failure._ "Didn't I leave you everything you need to get the job done? The means are at your disposal. Every day you delay, you expose the company to the risk of a meltdown. Have you seen the stock price recently? It's fallen through the floor! Damn you, Harry, do your duty as an Osborn! You owe it to me, and to yourself! Take control, NOW!"_

As if he were in a trance, Harry slowly made his way back to his desk. He opened the middle drawer and pulled out a vial of green liquid that could put him on the road to godhood if he so chose. His father had refined the performance enhancer so that it could be consumed in this form, eliminating the need for isolation chambers and other expensive equipment. He carried the vial back to the terrace where Norman was waiting for him.

"_Go on,"_ Norman whispered. _"Do it!"_

Sweating profusely,Harry held the vial up to what was left of the setting sun. He wrapped his fingers around the reinforced metal top and was about to start removing it. But then his survival instinct kicked in. He set the vial down next to the bottle of Cutty. "I can't," he said feebly. The truth was, Harry was afraid that his father's concoction would kill him on the spot, especially after he'd been drinking so much liquor. And ironically, out of that fear, he did the bravest thing he'd ever done in his life—he defied his father's express command and began his struggle to get out from under his father's shadow.

But it was not easy to break a lifetime pattern of docile acquiescence. All he could hear was Norman berating him incessantly about his incompetence, his weakness . . . and his cowardice. With each of Norman's visits, the part of his mind susceptible to his father's influence grew stronger. He knew he had to fight to keep Norman from taking over completely. If that happened, he would no longer be able to distinguish his own thoughts from his father's. It would be as if he was possessed by his father's spirit, just like in the _Exorcist_. Unfortunately, his pride was preventing him from seeking the professional help he needed to resolve those boundary issues.

In his own way though, Harry fought back gamely. He fought back by challenging his father about what happened at the _Oscorp. _Unity Day Festival back in 2002, when the Green Goblin attacked the dignitaries on the balcony, murdering the board members and nearly killing him. "You knew I was on that balcony dad," Harry said. "You knew I was there, but you attacked anyway. Why did you try to kill me? If you want me to do what you're asking, tell me why! You owe me that much!" Whenever he'd brought that subject up during previous encounters, Norman usually vanished.

But Norman did not disappear this time. To Harry's surprise, his father finally gave him an answer. _"Harry, you're my flesh and blood. You know I could never harm you,"_ he said soothingly._ "I had absolute faith that you would survive. . . and the fact that you are standing here more than justifiesthat faith. But I had to act! I had to remove those traitors before they destroyed what it took me thirty years to build! They were going to sell us out! Did you know that? I saved your ass, Harry! I eliminated every obstacle, every barrier to your success! Now you have to act. Get rid of Peter and do it quickly! If you don't he will succeed where the board failed! He will destroy our legacy and leave you destitute and broken!"_

But despite Norman's scare tactics, Harry still could not bring himself to drink the green potion. "M.J. might get hurt," he said, knowing full well that Mary Jane and Peter had to be together by now.The notion that M.J. and Peter were in love had kept him up all night, his mind wandering back and forth between acceptance and denial. He still cared forMary Jane very much as a friend. More than that, he felt responsible for what his father and Doc Ock had done to her.

Norman, on the other hand, felt no such remorse. _"M.J.?"_ he hissed._ "You mean that slut that you used to date? The one who took you for a ride, just like she took Jameson's kid for a ride? Let me tell you something about that ex-girlfriend of yours. She hasn't so much as given you a second thought! You're nothing to her!" _Norman had conveniently forgotten the advice that he had given his son to "broom her fast." But he wasn't going to let that get in the way of what his son had to do. _"Do you know where she is now? GETTING LAID BY YOUR SWORN ENEMY! They're in bed together, Harry! And you just stand there like a fool while he screws your girl . . . YOUR GIRL!"_

Norman clearly knew what strings he needed to pull to get his son properly motivated. Even after two years, Harry still felt a trace of bitterness at having lost Mary Jane. He'd been struggling to forget his feelings for M.J. and get on with his life while remaining on good terms with her, just as John Jameson would now have to do. But just as he started coming to terms with those feelings, his father, with impeccable timing, ripped open all of those old wounds. In desperation, Harry squeezed his eyes shut, hoping Norman would be gone by the time he opened them. No such luck. Norman wasn't even warmed up yet.

"_And she's laughing at you, Harry," _Norman continued. The absolute, utter contempt in his father's voice was palpable. _"She's laughing at you while she's having oral sex with your so-called best friend!"_ Norman made an obscene gesture with his tongue. _"And you're just going to let him take what should have been yours! You're a fool, Harry, a goddamned fool who came to a loser's end!"_

"Enough!" Harry screamed, hurling the vial at where he thought his father was. The glass didn't even shatter, he threw it so weakly. He knew at that point that he had to be hallucinating. Norman Osborn never used such vulgar language while he was alive. It wasn't his father at all, he told himself. It was his own mind, spewing venom at him from behind his father's image. He knew that his father's graphic tirade was nothing more than an expression of his own perverse fantasies about Mary Jane, fantasies he was too ashamed to admit to, being dredged up from his subconscious and thrown back in his face as an alcohol-induced illusion.

Despite the trauma that he was going through, Harry was beginning to figure out the game. That part of his mind held captive by his father was apparently going to use any means necessary to fan his hatred for Peter andkeepitalive at all costs. Why? To steer his attention away from the undeniable fact that his father was a killer. Harry was beginning to realize that if Peter had not acted, and acted decisively, the Goblin would have most certainly caused the deaths of Mary Jane and hundreds other innocents, not to mention himself. That knowledge alone would dissolve that hate, which was exactly what Norman could not abide.

As if he sensed that he was starting to lose his hold over Harry, Norman shifted gears, adopting a more sympathetic tone. _"You think I'm wrong about her?_ _Come, let me show you something."_ Harry followed his father back inside the penthouse. _"Take a look,"_ Norman said, pointing to the large portrait photograph of Mary Jane that Harry had taken when they were still an item. He liked the picture so much that he never bothered to have it removed when they stopped seeing each other. The portrait showed Mary Jane in profile, sitting on a large high-backed designer chair, wearing the sleeveless black dress that Harry adored.

And then Harry's eyes beheld something that his mind refused to accept. He watched in utter horror as Mary Jane suddenly came to life. She slowly turned her head toward him, her eyes glowing red, the grin on her face right out of the depths of Hades itself. She gave him the finger, and as she did, she laughed at him. But it was not the musical giggle that ignited the passions of the men she dated. It was the Green Goblin's cackle.

"Nooooooooooooo!" Harry screamed, hurling a vase at the picture and turning away to block out the awful hallucination. A migraine exploded on the right side of Harry's head, accompanied by a wave of nausea. Harry fell to his knees in front of the fire place, trying to hold his own against violent delirium tremens as his father's fearsome grip on his mind tightened like a vise. And as he struggled to keep from vomiting all over his expensive carpet, he heard the Green Goblin himself issue an edict, all traces of sympathy gone from his father's voice.

"_Be strong Harry! Be strong for both of us! Put aside whatever thoughts you have about forgiveness, and get it through your head that this is a matter of survival! Nothing less than the survival of your legacy is at stake! Eliminate those who would stand in your way, starting with Peter Parker!"_

"I'm . . .not like you!" Harry gasped, feeling as if his head was being pounded by a sledgehammer. "I'm not going to kill anyone! I'll save the company, but I'll do it my way!"

"_YOU WILL DO WHAT NEEDS TO BE DONE!" _the Goblin barked. _"Be true to your oath, the oath you swore over my grave and avenge me. . . NOW!"_

The pounding inside his skull was beginning to take its toll. Against his will, Harry found himself coming around to his father's way of thinking. As much as he wanted to forgive Peter, the fact remained that Peter was in a position to destroy the only thing he had left in the world that held any meaning for him. His father was right about that. It was not personal anymore. It was strictly a matter of business. Peter was dangerous—his testimony before the grand jury could wipe out the company. Harry had no choice— Peter had to be eliminated. And the DA, too. And if he couldn't do it himself, he would have to hire an assassin to do it for him. In the meantime, he would finish the privatization that his father had started, continue _Oscorp's_ aggressive acquisition strategy, and make the company the global powerhouse his father had always intended it to be.

"_Good, Harry, very good,"_ his father said, sounding pleased that his son was beginning to see the light. _"Remember, Harry, you have everything you need."_

When Harry opened his eyes a few minutes later, the migraine had subsided, the picture was back to normal, and Norman was gone. All that was left of the encounter were the shattered remnants of what had once been an expensive vase. He got up, made his way back to the desk, and sat down, depressed and hung over from the scotch. He buried his face in his hands and started weeping.

"Are you alright sir?" came a voice from the doorway. It was the family retainer, Bernard.

"Yes, Bernard, I'm fine."Harry answered, not really believing it. "I've had a lot of things on my mind lately."

"Do you require anything before I go home for the evening?"

"No thanks. I'll see you on Tuesday."

As Bernard left, he realized how far down his boss had spiraled and how desperately he needed some sort of intervention. For the last thirty minutes, Harry Osborn had been carrying on a conversation with someone who wasn't even there.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"_The battle against evil is never ending, because evil always survives . . . with the help of evil men."_ — Ben Urich, The Real Kingpin, _New York Post_, September 29, 2003, p. 1.

Seven months. It took seven months, but the last of the plaster casts was finally being removed. He would leave the hospital in a few days. . . . and go straight into police custody to await trial for the murder of Nicholas Natchios and the attempted murder of his daughter, Elektra, or so his court-appointed lawyer told him. That would never happen, he reassured himself. He would find a way to escape, somehow.

_How the fuck did she survive?_ he wondered wrathfully. He was so sure that he'd taken her out. Daredevil! It had to be! That contemptible bastard had somehow saved her. It didn't matter though. He would finish the job as soon as he got out of here. And this time, he would nail both of them and restore his reputation, a reputation that had been sullied by his recent failures . . . and by his capture.

He'd long forgotten the name his parents had given him. The only name he could remember was the alias that made him one of the most feared men on Earth. And if there was one thing of which he could be certain, it was that he was the best in the world at what he did. And with his patron behind bars, he was free to sell his services to the highest bidder.

He was Bullseye, _Mechanic Extraordinaire_, the world's greatest assassin.


	9. The Blind and the Befuddled

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**Peter's courtroom testimony concerning the circumstances of his firing from Joe's Pizza is taken verbatim from: Peter David, _Spider-Man 2 - The Official Novelization of the Film_ (New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2004), pp. 52-53. **

**Immigration cases are prosecuted by the _United States Department of Homeland Security_. The immigration court is under the _U.S. Department of Justice_.**

**_Pro Bono _refers to legal work done without charge. **

**Foggy Nelson's legal argument during the deportation hearing is based upon a real case, _Kiareldeen v. Reno_, 71 F. Supp. 2d 402 (D. N.J. 1999).**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**IX**

**THE BLIND AND THE BEFUDDLED**

Peter had no idea what lay in store for him that day.

He arrived at the Federal Plaza at his appointed time, wearing his threadbare suit, the only one he had. God help him if he heard any sirens or happened upon any disturbances now. This was one appointment he could not miss. The Almighty might have a sense of humor, but surely _He_ wouldn't sink so low as to force Peter to choose between saving a life and going to jail for contempt of court.

As he approached the security booth, he emptied his pockets of everything that was in them . . . his keys, his wallet, . . . _and his mask and gloves_. This was a "hide in plain sight" strategy that he'd rehearsed a hundred times, knowing that he would eventually have to pass through a security checkpoint somewhere. As he put his belongings in the tub, he saw the guard look at him with an expression that a parent would use on a child that had done something extremely foolish. But Peter was ready with an answer.

"It's fake . . . for a commercial I'm filming." he said quietly. "See?" He showed the guard the Made in China label inside the mask. Peter took the label from a moth-eaten sweater he found in a garbage can, and had sewn it in himself. It was another ingenious measure he devised to throw inquiring minds off his trail.

Bemused, the guard let him pass.

_Maybe I should've gone into acting too_, he thought, somewhat sardonically. _If it were only this easy all the time._

After receiving directions from the guard, he took the elevator to the twelfth floor. The Immigration Court Clerk's office was opposite the elevator bank. There was a line of people waiting at the window. Most of them were there for their own hearings. A few had lawyers. None spoke English.

When Peter's turn came, he presented his summons to the clerk and was directed to the witness waiting room on the fourteenth floor. The hearing would be held in Courtroom Number 7, just across the hall from that room. The middle-aged, heavyset African American clerk behind the window seemed relieved that she was finally able to talk to someone who spoke her language. She contacted the judge in the _Aziz_ case to let him know that the sole defense witness had just arrived.

The witness room was nearly filled to capacity by the time he got there. The only available chairs were in the back row. As he took his seat, he spotted a sports section from the _New York Times_ lying on the floor. It was the only reading material he could find. He scooped up the sports page and began skimming it. There was little of interest other than the Yankees and the Mets being in first place in their respective divisions, and the New England Patriots' all-pro running back Chuck Varick opting not to renegotiate the final two years of his contract.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"Tell me again Matt," a frustrated and exasperated Franklin "Foggy" Nelson badgered his law partner as they stepped out of the elevator and onto the fourteenth floor. "_Why_ did we take this case?"

"Because Mr. Aziz is not a terrorist, nor has he ever associated with anyone suspected of being a terrorist," Matthew Murdock answered in his soft-spoken, but resolute manner. Matt had been blind since he was twelve years old, his eyes destroyed by a spray of biohazardous waste in a horrible waterfront accident. Orphaned shortly thereafter, when his father, boxer Jack "The Devil" Murdock was murdered by an up-and-coming mobster named Wilson Fisk, he had grown up in Hell's Kitchen, once the meanest of New York's mean streets.

But Matt had transcended his tragic circumstances through sheer guts and determination, and had become one of the most respected members of the New York Trial Attorneys' Bar. He was also one of the most compassionate, taking on more pro bono clients than any other lawyer in the city.

During his entire adult life, Foggy Nelson had been there for him, like a brother. They'd roomed together through Harvard College and Columbia Law School, served as editors on the Law Review, and opened up their own practice when their stints as federal prosecutors were over. The law firm of Nelson & Murdock represented people from all walks of life, people who had no one else to turn to when their livelihoods or their lives were threatened. The firm had its share of million-dollar verdicts, including two hefty libel settlements against the _Daily Bugle_. It was victories like those that enabled them to pay their bills, live comfortably in Manhattan, and subsidize the pro bono side of their practice, the side that fired Matt Murdock's soul and honed his reputation as a premier litigator.

There were times when Matt wished he could see Foggy's kind and compassionate face. But when Foggy went into Cassandra mode, as he often did when Matt acceptedclients on the firm's behalf, Matt felt an overwhelming urge to stick his cane out in front of Foggy's feet, about three inches off the ground.

This was one of those times. For the last four days, Foggy had been bitching incessantly about Matt's decision to take on an immigration case, notwithstanding that they hadn't done one in over three years. Their client was Rahi Aziz, a pizza shop owner whom the government had accused of consorting with suspected terrorists and was trying to deport. After looking at the indictment, Foggy opined that the government had a pretty solid case.

They met Aziz for the first and only time last Thursday, in the holding cell. "Good Morning, Mr. Aziz," Matt said in that inimitable voice that the firm's would-be clients found authoritative and reassuring at the same time.

"Are you guys my lawyers?" Aziz asked, agitated and frightened.

"We will be . . . if you're innocent," Matt responded. "Are you?"

"Yes! Yes! I swear before God I am innocent!" Aziz screamed. It didn't even take one second for Matt to make his decision. "I believe you," he said, completely convinced. And that was that—the case was theirs, despite Foggy's protests. Unfortunately, there hadn't been time to get depositions from the government's witnesses. They would have to go into court winging it. It would not be the first time.

All their years together and Foggy still could not understand how Matt did it. "How can you be so goddamn sure he's innocent?" Foggy moaned. "Oh, never mind. I know how you know. But that's never been our problem, has it? You know what our problem is, Matt?"

"That I'm still vacuumless?" he asked in a somewhat mocking tone, reminded of how his partner constantly harped on him about his inability to create the moral vacuum necessary to represent "rich and guilty" clients.

"No, that's _your_ problem," Foggy answered, stressed out after hours of legal research. It didn't help that they had only four days to prepare. "_Our_ problem is coming up with the evidence to support whatever that internal bullshit detector of yours tells you. They're gonna put up three witnesses, and every single one of them fingered Aziz as the go-between."

"He was set up!" Matt said, starting to get exasperated. "How many times do I have to repeat it for you?" Matt sighed, knowing that Foggy was still letting off steam at having to cut short his date with Liz Allen last Friday in order to work on this case.

"That's what he says," Foggy retorted. "But do you know anything about his alibi witness? His _only_ alibi witness? A real flighty college kid! His head's always in the clouds, and he never shows up for work on time."

"Who told you that?"

"Aziz. He fired the kid for Christ's sake! Why the hell didn't we bring him in as a hostile witness?" Foggy was really getting worked up.

"Because our client said not to, remember?" Matt responded, unperturbed and dismissive of his partner's anxieties. "Look on the bright side," he continued. "At least Aziz agreed to pay us."

"With what, . . . pizzas?" Foggy snapped. Their office was loaded with all kinds of barter that their pro bono clients had paid them with in lieu of cash . . . fish, Jamaican rum, figurines carved from coconuts . . . you name it.

Matt paused, suddenly remembering a critical detail. "Did the subpoena I asked for go out?"

"Yeah. Last Thursday. . . . But I have no idea whether the witness even got it."

"Wait a minute—what time is it?" Matt asked.

Foggy looked at his watch. "Two minutes to nine," he answered.

Matt cocked his head to one side and listened very intensely. After several minutes of struggling to discern one voice from among hundreds, he patted Foggy on the back.

"You can stop worrying," Matt said, exuding confidence. "Our witness is in the building. He just got past security and was sent up to the clerk's office."

"How do you know?" Foggy asked, incredulously.

"I heard him," Matt replied with a mischievous smile. He loved playing head games with his partner, knowing that Foggy would never be able to make the connection with Daredevil. He may have been great at finding obscure legal precedents, but putting two and two together was definitely not his strong suit.

"What! How in the hell could you possibly . . . . Oh, forget it." After so many years of working with Matt, Foggy had learned that some questions were just not worth asking.

"Who's the judge?" Matt asked.

"Hang on a second," Foggy said as he took a few steps ahead to look at the plaque next to the courtroom door. When he saw the name of the judge whose courtroom they were about to enter, his jaw dropped and his heart sank.

"Oh, you're really gonna love this Matt," he said sarcastically, "Bye Bye Lefkowitz. Ain't that just fucking great."

Howard Morton Lefkowitz was a tough-as-nails immigration judge who was given the nickname "Bye Bye" by members of the immigration bar because of a well-  
deserved reputation for siding with the government in deportation cases. It was the worst possible draw for attorneys who were not seasoned in immigration matters, and they weren't. To win, they would have to blow some huge holes in the government's evidence, which Foggy did not believe was possible with only a single rebuttal witness.

"Trust me," Matt reassured his partner. "We'll be all right."

"I hope so." Foggy replied sullenly, "I'm sick and tired of feeling like Don Quixote every time we walk into court."

They entered the courtroom and proceeded directly to the defense table, where Rahi Aziz, their client, was waiting for them. Aziz was dressed in a pale blue jacket and red tie, but was perspiring and scared out of his mind. His wife, a traditionally garbed young Muslim woman, and their two small children, an infant and a toddler, sat immediately behind the defense table. The baby was asleep, a pacifier in his mouth. His older sister played with her Elmo doll.

"Did you find him?" Aziz asked anxiously. "He's my last hope."

"Yes, he's here." Foggy told him, trying his best to sound encouraging. Unlike his partner though, empathy was not among his talents or natural capabilities.

"Thank God!" Aziz said, breathing a fervent sigh of relief. He was apparently more confident of victory than Foggy was.

"All rise!" a beefy United States marshal shouted as Senior Immigration Judge Howard M. Lefkowitz entered the court room. Judge Lefkowitz was a truly imposing figure, standing six foot three and weighing two hundred and fifty five pounds. A shock of white hair spilled across his forehead. A former immigration attorney himself, his aged, bespectacled face had seen everything under the sun as far as immigration was concerned. To Foggy Nelson, he looked like Andy Rooney with an edge.

"Be seated,"growled Judge Lefkowitz. He had a voice that said, _I don't have time for bullshit so let's just get it on. _The _Aziz_ case was the first of what promised to be another long line of deportation hearings. He did not look very happy about it. "United States versus Rahi Aziz," he growled again. "Mr. Murdock, you may begin."

Holding his cane but not using it, Matt stood up and walked right up to the bench, primed for battle. "Your Honor, justice is blind, but she can and must be heard, especially during these difficult times, when we all live in fear of an unseen enemy who can strike from the shadows without warning. Even as we try to prevent another 9-11, we must still be diligent in protecting the rights of our citizens, and of those who wish to join our American family. What we have here today is a case of mistaken identity, which, if not rectified immediately, could have life-threatening consequences, not only for our client, but for the rest of us as well."

Matt had done his homework on this judge. He toned down his usual opening statement theatrics and got down to business right away, knowing that Bye Bye Lefkowitz intensely disliked fluff and flourishes. Besides, there were no juries at immigration hearings, and without juries, there was no one who could appreciate the shows he put on.

"Opening statement, Mr. Kay?" the judge asked Byron Kay, the attorney representing the Department of Homeland Security.

"Your Honor, in the interests of time, the Government will waive it's opening statement," Kay answered, a trace of smugness in his voice. To him, this was simply another routine deportation, one in which he had complete confidence of victory.

"Call your first witness please, Mr. Murdock."

"At this time, I would like to call Rahi Aziz."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

It was the longest, most boring two hours Peter had ever had in his life. He was sitting in a crowded waiting room, trying to pass the time by reading articles from the sports page over and over. It was useless. He felt a headache coming on from the lack of circulating air in the room and his own nervousness at having to be in court. His mind soon drifted back toward that fabulous weekend he'd spent with Mary Jane. It was all he could think about. He'd been away from her for only a few hours, but already, he missed her terribly. He closed his eyes and imagined himself making love to her again, and then afterward, her head resting on his shoulder, the two of them having pillow talk, gazing into each other's eyes . . .

"PARKER!" a deep, gruff voice shouted, jolting him out of his reverie. The voice belonged to a big, burly United States marshal who had stuck his head inside the door to the waiting room. With his ramrod posture and a crew cut, the guy looked very much like the ex-marine he probably was. He was not someone that a rational person would want to pick a fight with.

"Peter Parker!" the marshal barked again.

Peter quickly raised his hand.

"If you'll come with me please, Mr. Parker."

"Yes sir."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Aziz had been as good on the witness stand as could be expected from someone in his situation. He spoke with such conviction that Kay dispensed with cross-examination. Instead, the government introduced three witnesses, one right after the other. One was from Jordan and the other two from France. They spoke English with nary a trace of an accent, leading Matt and Foggy to believe that they were extremely well coached. Each of these witnesses testified that, on March 4th, between the hours of twelve and four in the afternoon, they had observed Mr. Aziz on the corner of 48th Street and Eighth Avenue, engaging in intense discussions with several persons with suspected connections to Al Qaeda. Their stories were remarkably consistent, their demeanor pleasant and professional.

Things were not looking good for the defense, It was Aziz's word against those of three seemingly credible eyewitnesses. Foggy Nelson sighed and rolled his eyes, thinking it was all over. But Matt remained unruffled. As Hagdabi, the Jordanian spoke, Matt listened intensely to his heartbeat. The fluttering he heard told him right away that the man was lying through his teeth.

"Your witness, Mr. Murdock?" asked the judge.

_Got 'em_, Matt thought excitedly, knowing that his opponent had just exposed his flanks. Shifting his strategy on the fly, he said, "Your honor, with the court's permission, I would like to reserve cross examination until after our witness has had the opportunity to testify on direct."

"I'll allow it," replied Judge Lefkowitz after not hearing any objections from the government. _Kay obviously doesn't have a clue as to what's coming_, Matt realized, smiling ever so slightly as he observed his opponent scribbling on a yellow legal pad.

To Hagdabi, the judge said,"Please return with the marshal to the witness waiting room and remain there until you are recalled." It was the same with the other two witnesses. As the last government witness was escorted out, Matt took a deep breath, knowing that his entire case would rise or fall on the credibility of the man who was about to testify.

"Your Honor, at this time, we would like to call Peter Parker to the stand."

Judge Lefkowitz turned to the marshal. "Would you please bring Mr. Parker in?"

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Peter accompanied the marshal across the hall and into the courtroom, where he was directed to proceed to the witness box. As he sat down, he quickly glanced at the judge's nameplate. It was an unadorned brass plaque with the name, _Howard M. Lefkowitz_, etched in plain block lettering. He then looked over at Aziz, who appeared to be breathing a sigh of relief at seeing him. As a boss, Aziz was always in a state of perpetual panic, as if he were fighting five fires at once. Now, he seemed remarkably calm and relaxed, which was good, considering the pressure he was under.

Aziz had two attorneys with him. They appeared to be in their mid-thirties. The lawyer sitting next to Aziz was dark-haired, heavy-set, and sweating as he nervously fumbled through pages of notes. The other lawyer held a silver and red cane in his left hand and wore heavily tinted sunglasses. They didn't exactly inspire confidence. _Blind and Befuddled, attorneys-at-law_, Peter thought sarcastically, _Aziz would've done better with Laurel and Hardy_. He hoped, for his ex-employer's sake, that these guys knew what the hell they were doing.

Likewise, seeing Peter Parker for the first time did not lift Foggy Nelson's spirits. To Foggy, Parker looked like an unprepossessing, slightly spaced-out college dude whose rumpled suit would do nothing to enhance his credibility. _This is our star witness? _Foggy asked himself glumly, _the prosecution's going to have a field day with this clown_.

But Matt's hyper-sharp senses were trained on Peter from the moment he stepped into the courtroom. Like Foggy, he discerned a man in his early twenties, of average stature and an outwardly unassuming manner. But he also detected a few things that Foggy did not. The man's heartbeat was slow, strong, and steady, and he was giving off a subtle, but powerful energy. He also moved with unusual fluidity and grace as he walked down the aisle and mounted the witness stand. Matt could not shake the feeling that there was there was much more to this kid than what was on the surface.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Parker." Judge Lefkowitz said in a reassuring, grandfatherly manner that reminded Peter of his uncle Ben somewhat. Foggy and Byron Kay exchanged glances, aware that the judge was known for being gentle on witnesses. And this particular witness had such a little-boy-lost quality about him that the judge couldn't help but show his softer side.

"As you know, this is a deportation proceeding," the judge continued. "Your presence has been requested by counsel for the defense. I'm going to ask you some basic informational questions. Mr. Murdock will then ask you questions on direct examination, followed by Mr. Kay on cross-examination." As he spoke, he identified each attorney with a hand gesture. "Do _you_ have any questions before we proceed?"

"No Your Honor." he said with respect, but not obsequiousness.

Matt was suddenly overcome by a feeling of deja vu, but his only outward reaction was to raise his eyebrows slightly. He'd heard that voice before, but he did not immediately recall when or where. He couldn't think about now, however, because his attention was fully focused on saving his client from being deported.

"Please state your full name for the record." the judge continued.

"Peter Benjamin Parker."

"Address?"

"8742 Carmine Street, Apartment 501, New York City.

"Current occupation?"

"Photo journalist." _And costumed crime buster!_ Peter answered silently.

"Your employer?"

"I'm a freelancer. The _Daily Bugle_ buys my photographs."

"Do you have any objections to being sworn?"

"No sir."

"Very well. Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give is true to the best of your knowledge and belief?"

"I do."

"Your witness, Mr. Murdock."

Murdock stood up. He was about six feet tall, broad shouldered and had enough good looks to give John Jameson a run for his money. But there was something very odd about the way this Murdock carried himself as he approached the witness box, so much so that it actually triggered Peter's spider-sense as he drew near. Murdock wasn't using his cane to navigate, which was extremely unusual for a blind man. If Peter didn't know better, he could swear that Murdock was looking right at him.

"Good morning Mr. Parker." the lawyer began politely. Peter's heartbeat jumped. He was sure that he'd encountered this individual before. Looking at the man's cane, Peter noticed a pair of strange-looking emblems on its handle: an angel's face on one side; and a devil's face on the other.

Matt picked up Peter's reaction, but did not let it show. "I apologize for the short notice that you were given to appear at this hearing." he continued. "My name is Matthew Murdock, and the gentleman sitting at the table is my partner, Franklin Nelson. We represent the defendant, Rahi Aziz, and it was we who requested your presence here today. Do you know Mr. Aziz?"

"I do."

"Can you identify him please, for the record?"

Peter pointed to Aziz.

"You'll have to speak up. The court stenographer can't transcribe gestures."

_How in the hell did this guy know that I was pointing? _Peter wondered, his spider-sense still tingling. _He's blind, for Christ's sake! He must have some kind of electronic device in that cane that helps him get around. _"He's sitting next to Mr. Nelson."

"Please describe your association with Mr. Aziz."

"Mr. Aziz hired me to deliver pizzas."

"And when did he hire you?"

"January 15th of this year."

"Was this job in addition to your work as a freelance photographer?"

"Yes. I needed the extra money to defray my educational expenses and support my elderly aunt. . . . She's a widow."

"Where do you go to school?"

"I'm finishing my sophomore year at N.Y.U."

"So, you are attending college full time _and_ maintaining two households?"

"I'm trying sir."

"How old are you?" Matt asked, genuinely curious.

"Twenty." Peter answered, wondering what his age had to do with the case.

"And how are you doing in school, if I may ask?"

"I've never had a grade below an 'A' since elementary school."

That answer impressed Matt Murdock, so much so that he already found himself thinking of Peter Parker as a younger version of himself. Like him, Parker was able to succeed academically under extremely trying circumstances. That alone spoke volumes about how responsible he was at such a young age, and dispelled any negative first impressions he might have made. He could feel the reactions of Kay, Foggy, Judge Lefkowitz, and even his client, Aziz. They all seemed to be taken with this young man. Without missing a beat, he returned to his line of questioning.

"And what is the name of the establishment for which you delivered pizza?"

"Joe's Pizza."

"Where is that establishment located?"

"MacDougal Street, in Greenwich Village."

Matt asked a few more factual questions to lay a foundation. It was now time to go straight to the heart of the case. "Mr. Parker, where were you at 1:50 PM on the date of March 4, 2004?"

"I had just arrived at Joe's, and was about to receive an order for a large pizza delivery." He remembered that moment all to well—he'd nearly crashed into Aziz because he'd been paying more attention to Mary Jane's billboard than to where he was going.

"Did you encounter Mr. Aziz at that time you received that order?"

"Yes I did."

"Where?"

"In front of Joe's."

"And what did he say to you when he gave you that order?"

"He told me that I had eight minutes to deliver seventeen pizzas to the advertising firm of Harmattan, Burton, and Smith."

"Approximately how far away from Joe's pizza is Harmattan, Burton, and Smith?"

"In the Woolworth Building, approximately forty two blocks. Toward Midtown."

"So, am I to understand that Mr. Aziz expected you to deliver seventeen pizzas a distance of over forty blocks in just eight minutes?"

"Yes."

"That seemed to be quite an undertaking. Why didn't Mr. Aziz give you more time than that to make your delivery?"

"The customer had called in twenty one minutes earlier. Joe's has a guarantee—the Pizza arrives in 29 minutes or it's free."

"And can you tell the court whether you made that delivery?"

"I made it to the Woolworth building, but I was two minutes late." He faltered, but instantly recovered his composure and continued. " The customer refused to pay for the pizzas." Peter gritted his teeth as he remembered how that bitch of a receptionist shorted him a hundred and fifty bucks, despite his herculean effort to get there on time. But he remained unflappable, patiently and politely answering every question that was put to him.

"And what happened after that?"

"I was fired."

"Who actually fired you?"

"Mr. Aziz."

"Do you recall the time of day that you were fired?"

"About 3:30, give or take a few minutes."

"Where?"

"At Joe's Pizza, right after I got back from the Woolworth building."

"For the record please, why were you fired?"

"For causing Joe's to default on its 29-minute guarantee."

"Do you recall the exact words during that exchange?"

"Yes," Peter answered, taking a deep breath and forcing himself to recite dialogue from one of the worst moments of his life.

"_Joe's twenty-nine minute guarantee is a promise! I know a promise means nothing to you, Parker, but to me it is serious!"_ _Aziz lectured him angrily, having had enough of his excuses._

"_It's serious to me too, Mr. Aziz . . ." Peter replied feebly, knowing that he had no credibility left with his boss_.

"_You're fired!"_ _Aziz declared, reluctant to let him go when he was so short-handed, but fed up with his unreliability._

"_Give me another chance." Peter begged, trying to stave off losing his fifth job in as many months._

"_No more chances! You're fired . . . FIRED!"_ _And to emphasize the point, Aziz pulled the Joe's Pizza logo off Peter's helmet._

Outwardly, Peter was calm and collected. Inwardly, he was struggling to keep from breaking down on the witness stand. Murdock did not yell at him or treat him rudely, but the attorney's methodical, surgical questioning bore into him like a laser beam, and left him feeling absolutely humiliated at having to experience once again the shame and disgrace he felt when, for the umpteenth time, he'd let down somebody who depended on him. _Am I the one on trial here?_ he thought.

Even Aziz felt unnerved watching Peter testify. This was as unpleasant for him as it was for his former employee. He leaned over toward Foggy Nelson.

"Do you really have to put him through all that again?" he whispered in Foggy's ear, worried that Peter might turn against him.

Foggy turned to his client and said, not unsympathetically, "Matt knows what he's doing, believe me. Trust us."

None of this was lost on Matt Murdock. He literally felt Peter's and Aziz's pain at being forced to relive that day, and really felt bad about having to drag Peter through the mud like this. He was obviously a sensitive kid who hated dwelling on past failures. But Peter was turning out to be a godsend of a witness, answering questions about a difficult personal setback with poise and dignity. The detail with which Peter described his ordeal left no doubt that he was telling the truth. And with each response, he enhanced his stature and elevated his credibility in the eyes of the judge, which was exactly what Matt needed to have happen in order to turn the tide in his client's favor.

Matt suddenly looked toward a window. The bells from a distant church signaled that it was eleven o'clock. To Matt, it sounded like the church was right outside.

Figuring that Peter needed a break, he asked the judge, "Your Honor, may we have a short recess?"

"How long, Mr. Murdock?"

"Five minutes."

"Okay," said Judge Lefkowitz. We'll take five minutes." He banged his gavel. The court reporter immediately stopped transcribing.

Matt turned back to face Peter, an expression of compassion behind his sunglasses. "I know how difficult this must be for you," he said kindly, "but try and hang in there just a little longer, okay?"

"Sure . . . thanks." Peter responded, grateful that Murdock was sensitive enough to appreciate the emotional toll that this hearing was taking on him.

The judge, meanwhile, had taken a bathroom break, and when he returned, the court reconvened.

"Is there anything else that you would like to add?" Matt asked Peter.

"Yes Mr. Murdock," he answered, looking straight at Aziz, "I would." Peter knew the right thing to do without having to be reminded. True, he deeply resented Aziz for firing him without ever acknowledging how close he came to making an impossible delivery. But after what happened to Uncle Ben, he dreaded the karma that would surely be visited upon Aunt May or Mary Jane if he ever tried to seek retribution against anybody, ever again.

"At the time, I was pissed off that Mr. Aziz let me go when I was really desperate for cash. But with the benefit of hindsight, and reflection, it's obvious that if I were in Mr. Aziz's place, and I had an employee who was showing up late and giving me a boatload of excuses, I would have done the exact same thing. He'd given me plenty of chances to get it right."

Every head in the courtroom turned toward him. Peter felt more confident, more sure of himself as he accepted responsibility for what had occurred that day. He was articulate and compelling, but not overbearing. Murdock's questioning had turned out to be therapeutic—it had gotten him over the pain of revisiting a very dark chapter in his life. He could now talk about what had happened without feeling anger, bitterness, or resentment.

Peter turned to his right and addressed the judge directly. "Your Honor, I've only known Mr. Aziz a short time, but I can say without hesitating that he is a decent, honest, hardworking American-to-be who just wants to do right by his customers and take care of his family. Not once did I ever hear him say anything bad about the United States or its leaders. It is inconceivable that Mr. Aziz could be a terrorist, support terrorism, or be sympathetic to their cause." As he finished, he saw Aziz beaming at him.

The judge's heartbeat told Matt Murdock that Peter had won the judge over with his quiet dignity, sincere convictions, and grace under fire. Even Foggy, that professional pessimist, was starting to believe. However, Matt kept his face neutral, knowing that they were not out of the woods yet. Peter had yet to be cross-examined, and Kay was one of the best.

"I pass the witness." Matt said, wearing the facial expressions of a high-states poker player.

Kay was thrown. He did not expect Parker to be such a compelling rebuttal witness, and it was too late to object to the admissibility of his testimony. Sensing that the case he had so meticulously constructed for the government was starting to crumble, he frantically combed through the pages and pages of notes that he and his two assistants had made during Peter's direct testimony, looking for any weak link in his story, any opening that could be exploited.

He could find only one. "Mr. Parker," Kay said, trying desperately not to sound like the heavy in this drama, "could you elaborate for the court on how it took you only ten minutes to get up to the Woolworth Building, but a whole hour and a half to get back?"

"Objection!" Franklin Nelson shouted. "Relevance."

"Your honor, the witness's answer may have a bearing on his credibility." Kay was not going to back down. The government's entire case was on the line.

"I'll allow it." Judge Lefkowitz said.

It was a moment that Peter had dreaded, and had wanted to avoid at all costs . . . being legally obligated to answer questions that could compromise his secret identity. The fibs he'd told Mary Jane during the last two years would not cut it here. If he lied under oath, he would open himself up to a charge of perjury and wind up going to prison. But if he told the truth, he and Mary Jane would be crushed under an avalanche of publicity and targeted by every scumbag he'd nailed over the years.

Doing what he had to do in order to protect himself and M.J., Peter drew a deep breath and said smoothly "I wasn't in too much of a hurry to tell Mr. Aziz that I'd just given away a hundred and fifty dollars worth of pizza." He did not tell the truth, but neither did he lie. In essence, he had answered the question by not answering it.

The exchange between Peter and Kay got a chuckle out of the normally stern judge. "Satisfied, Mr. Kay?" he asked, amused.

"Yes, Your Honor," a dejected Kay replied, knowing that he was only one or two moves away from being check-mated. He reluctantly conceded Peter's veracity.

"Very well," the judge said. "The witness is excused."

But Matt wanted to hold Peter in reserve, just in case he had a problem with his upcoming cross-examination of Hagdabi and the other government witnesses. "Your Honor, I request that Mr. Parker remain in the courtroom, in the event his rebuttal testimony is needed."

"No objection Your Honor." Kay said.

"Very well," Judge Lefkowitz replied, repeating what was turning out to be his stock phrase. To Peter he said, "Please have a seat in the back."

"Yes, Your Honor." As Peter left the witness stand, Matt's eyebrows furrowed, and a look of genuine surprise played across his face. Parker's heartbeat fluttered wildly when he explained why it took him so long to get back to Joe's. The question was so innocuous, and outwardly, Peter's demeanor did not change. But his heartbeat spiked as he gave his answer and returned to normal afterwards. In Matt's long experience with such matters, it was a sure sign that Peter was hiding something. For the life of him, Matt couldn't imagine what it was. But he wasn't about to impeach the witness whose testimony had just demolished the government's case against his client.

"Your Honor," Matt said, getting ready to put the icing on the cake, "at this time, we would like to recall Mr. Hagdabi for cross-examination. During the brief interval that followed, he made his way back to the defense table and whispered something in his partner's ear. Foggy immediately opened up a blue binder containing notes written in Braille. Murdock ran his fingers over the papers and quickly returned to his position in front of the witness box as the first of the government's witnesses against Aziz was escorted back into the courtroom.

"Mr. Hagdabi, for the record, can you please repeat the answers that you gave to Mr. Kay concerning the whereabouts of Mr. Aziz on the afternoon of March 4th?"

"Mr. Aziz was standing in front of a convenience store on the corner of 48th Street and Eighth Avenue."

Peter had to beat back the urge to shout, "He's lying!" But Matt Murdock already had the situation well in hand.

"Mr. Hagdabi," he asked slowly, in the iciest voice he could muster, "do you know what the penalty is for perjury?"

_Go get 'em Matt!_ Peter said silently as he found himself rooting for Murdock. He was very impressed by the blind lawyer's courtroom tactics. By putting Peter on the stand before cross-examining the witness for the other side, Murdock had established beyond doubt where Aziz had been that day, and had set a trap for anyone who told a contrary story. It worked brilliantly, judging from the highly agitated look on Hagdabi's face, and the highly skeptical expression on the judge's.

"I don't understand, sir. I've told you the truth." Hagdabi said, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead.

"Under 18 United States Code Section 1621, if you are convicted of lying under oath, you could be put in prison for five years," Matt informed the witness sternly. "If I were you, I would get my story straight."

"Objection, Your Honor!" Kay was on his feet, realizing that he had to do _something_ to salvage his case. "Would you _please_ direct counsel not to intimidate the witness?"

"I'll allow the question." Judge Lefkowitz said, "but tone it down a bit, will you, Mr. Murdock?"

"Yes Your Honor," Murdock replied humbly. Turning back to face the witness he said, "Well, Mr. Hagdabi?" He did little to conceal his annoyance that this lying low life had the nerve to persist in wasting the court's time, and his.

_Not bad, for a blind guy,_ Peter thought, watching in utter amazement as Hagdabi melted under Matt Murdock's brutal cross-examination as quickly as ice on a Summer day. "Uh . . . um . . . I'm not really sure it was Aziz," Hagdabi stammered. "I didn't get as clear a view as I originally believed. Maybe it was somebody else."

"I have no further questions of this witness, Your Honor." Murdock said, confident that victory was his.

"Your witness Mr. Kay?" said the judge.

Kay quickly realized the futility of trying to rehabilitate Hagdabi. But he had one last card up his sleeve. It was a long shot, but if he played it, he'd be able to sleep well that night, knowing that he'd given it his best shot.

"Your honor," he said in a conciliatory manner, "the Government will save the court's time by conceding that Mr. Hagdabi, Mr. D'Villiers, and Mr. Giscard are . . . less than reliable witnesses. At this time, however, we would like to introduce an affidavit from an intelligence operative in the employ of the Central Intelligence Agency. This individual stated that he observed the defendant in London with . . ."

Franklin Nelson grinned. He knew what was coming, having thoroughly researched the legal issue that the government was about to raise. And he was ready for it. "Objection!" he shouted, leaping to his feet. "Neither Mr. Murdock nor myself were ever notified of the presence of this document during discovery. As this court knows, the use of secret evidence in deportation proceedings has been declared unconstitutional in United States v. Kiareldeen."

"Sustained," said the judge. He didn't bother to wait for Kay's response.

"But Your Honor," Kay protested, "national security considerations override. . ."

"SUSTAINED!" roared the judge, glaring at the hapless civil servant. He was very angry that the government would try to subvert the Constitution by resorting to such deplorable tactics. Even Peter was startled, nearly jumping out of his seat as the wrath of Bye Bye Lefkowitz was put on full display.

"The government rests, Your Honor," Kay said, dejected, shrinking back into his chair. He'd been thoroughly trounced by a blind man, and he knew it.

"The defense rests," repeated Matt Murdock, barely able to conceal the triumph in his voice.

At that moment, Peter's spider-sense suddenly went off. Not intensely, but enough to slow things down and prompt him to turn around. Someone seated behind him suddenly got up and was leaving the courtroom, talking into a cell phone . . . in a foreign language.

Matt Murdock too, heard the cell phone conversation . . . all the way from the defense table. The conversation was in Arabic, and although Matt did not understand the language, he knew that the caller was highly agitated, and that he appeared to be giving some kind of order.

Their near-simultaneous reactions subsided as the judge started speaking again.

"Does either party wish to make a closing statement?" the judge asked.

Neither party did.

"Very well then," replied the judge. "I will issue my ruling from the bench. I find that the government failed to prove that Mr. Rahi Aziz was the individual that was observed at the corner of 48th Street and Eighth Avenue on March 4, 2004. In particular, I find the testimony of the defense witness to be more credible and plausible than that of the government's witnesses. Therefore, this court finds in favor of the defendant, Rahi Aziz. The charges against Mr. Aziz are dismissed, and Mr. Aziz is free to go." And with that ruling, "Bye Bye" Lefkowitz overcame his reputation.

Aziz wept as he jumped up and threw his arms around each of his attorneys, thanking them profusely. But Judge Lefkowitz wasn't finished yet. With a sympathetic smile on his face, he continued as Aziz hugged his wife and children. "Mr. Aziz, on behalf of the United States Department of Justice, I sincerely apologize for the ordeal that you were put through, and I will recommend that your application for United States citizenship be expedited as soon as possible."

"Thank you so very, very much, Your Honor," Aziz said through his tears. He turned around, looking for the ex-employee who had just saved his hide. "Parker! . . . Peter! . . . Peter Parker!" he shouted.

But Peter was already out the door and heading toward the elevator. The only things that were on his mind at that moment were Mary Jane and his upcoming finals, in that order. He turned around at hearing his name called. Aziz was pushing his way through the crowd, trying to reach him. His family and his attorneys were right behind him.

They all reached the elevator at the same time. Aziz embraced Peter and kissed him on both cheeks as elevator door opened.

"Congratulations, Mr. Aziz." Peter said, not unkindly. "I'm happy for you."

"Thank you Peter . . . thank you! You saved my life."

"Well I . . . I just did what I had to do, that's all." Peter responded as he shrugged his shoulders, embarrassed at all the fuss Aziz was making over him. All he did was tell the truth, which he would have done whether he was under oath or not. But he would shortly find out what a hero he truly was that day.

"Mr. Aziz's is quite right. You _did_ save his life, literally," said a voice behind them. It was Matt Murdock, who, with Franklin Nelson, and Aziz's family, had managed to squeeze into the elevator just before the doors closed.

"How?" Peter asked, his curiosity piqued.

Matt Murdock hated being in crowded elevators. With so many people packed together, their heartbeats sounded like firecrackers going off. It was murder on his ears. He and Peter were practically sandwiched together. Up this close, Peter's heartbeat sounded more like cannon fire, _boom BOOM . . . boom BOOM. . _. But he still managed to hold his own, knowing that he would not have to endure this torture for more than thirty seconds.

"Mr. Aziz was charged with religious crimes in his home country, including speaking out in favor of women's rights," Matt explained. "He'd been tried and sentenced to death in absentia by a religious court. Fortunately, he got out before the authorities could arrest him. Had he been deported, he would have been tortured and executed." He smiled in spite of the assault on his ears. "Again, I'm sorry for bringing up so many unpleasant memories, but we needed you to describe what happened that day in enough detail to discredit anything their witnesses might say. And you did that."

"You were fantastic!" Nelson chimed in as the elevator doors opened to the lobby, his face flush with excitement at having won before the infamous Bye Bye Lefkowitz.

Peter was not quite sure of how he felt at that moment. Matt Murdock had made him feel like a hero, or more precisely, made _Peter Parker_ feel like the hero. After all, it was Peter, not Spider-Man, who saved the life of his former boss. He began to think, perhaps for the first time, that maybe he didn't have to don a costume to do heroic deeds. At the same time, he was deeply impressed by the performance of Aziz's attorneys during the hearing. Even Nelson, whom he initially regarded as a bumbler, came through with a key interception when he shot down that secret evidence argument. If he ever had a legal problem, he wouldn't hesitate to call these guys.

Peter's thoughts were interrupted by his ex-boss, who was still on cloud nine. "Peter, what can I say. I'm really sorry that I fired you." Aziz said to him as they passed through the revolving door and outside into the plaza. "I'll give you your job back, today!"

"Thank's Mr. Aziz, I really appreciate it," Peter told him a little sheepishly as he started to look around for the bus stop. "But I'm not really cut out for the pizza business."

Aziz pulled a large wad of tens and twenties out of his pocket and handed them to Foggy. "Here's the rest of my fee. Seven hundred dollars."

But with a single motion that Peter thought impossible for a blind man, Matt intercepted the money. "Won't you be needing this to pay your bills?" He asked sympathetically as he glanced toward his client's wife and kids.

"I'll manage." Aziz responded. He sounded confident and assured. But his irregular heartbeat told Matt Murdock a different story.

"We can't take this now," Matt said, handing the money back to Aziz. "Take care of your family first. You can pay us when you're able to."

"Allah be praised!" said Aziz, his gratitude evident. "I love America!"

"Matt, _what are you doing_?" Foggy said softly, gritting his teeth as he smiled.

Matt whacked him on the leg with is cane. Not too hard, but just enough to startle him.

"Oww." Foggy moaned. He got the message. "Pay us when you can," he echoed, "but try not to take too long."

"Next month!" Aziz promised.

This spontaneous act of generosity made another deep impression on Peter. How many lawyers would actually take a rain check on their fees? Without really knowing why, he began to feel a profound sense of kinship with Matt Murdock. Like him, Murdock fought hard for the helpless and the downtrodden without asking anything in return. And from what Peter had seen in court today, Murdock was superb at what he did, a battle-hardened warrior fighting for justice. He was definitely somebody that Peter could relate to.

And after that incident with the money, he began to wonder if Matt Murdock was really blind—he certainly didn't carry himself like a blind man. The feeling he had of having seen Murdock before persisted. If only he could remember where. . .

All of a sudden, the hustle and bustle of the plaza slowed down, almost to a complete stop. The cars on the street and pedestrians in and around the plaza were nearly frozen . . . and silent. . . except for an approaching motorcycle.

Matt was also sure that he'd previously crossed paths with Peter Parker. He was concentrating hard, struggling to remember. But before he could finish putting the puzzle pieces together, he saw Parker's body stiffen, his eyes bulge, and his head twist around far faster than should have been possible for a human being. A fraction of a second later, he too heard a motorcycle bearing down on them. But he also detected something that Peter did not . . . the unmistakable _click_ of a gun safety being turned off.

Peter and Matt both knew, instantaneously, what was about to happen. For a fraction of a second, the two uncostumed vigilantes turned to face each other as subconscious communication passed between them. Then, acting as one, they leaped into action.


	10. The Face of Evil

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**The _Geneva Convention_ is the treaty governing the treatment of prisoners of war, which entered into force on October 21, 1950.**

**Some of the dialogue between Spider-Man and the two motorcycle assailants is taken from actual intelligence reports gleaned from detainees at Guantanamo Bay. _See _Richard Serrano, _Military Report on Guantanamo Highlights Danger of Al Qaeda_, Los Angeles Times, April 18, 2005.**

"**Capito?" is the Italian expression for "understood?"**

**_S.W.A.T._ stands for "Special Weapons and Tactics." A S.W.A.T. team is an elite police unit called in to handle dangerous situations.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**X**

**THE FACE OF EVIL**

Acting purely on impulse and adrenalin, Peter threw himself in front of Aziz, his wife and children, and Foggy Nelson, who were walking toward the street, still unaware of the impending danger. At the same instant, Matt whirled around and pressed the cherub emblem on the handle of his cane, transforming his seemingly innocuous assistive device into a wicked-looking silver and red billy club.

A split second later, a large and powerful motorcycle came roaring up the street in front of the Federal Plaza. From the sound of its engine, Matt was able to identify the bike as a Kawasaki Vulcan 2000. There were two men on the Vulcan. They were dressed in jeans and brown leather jackets, their faces concealed by visored helmets. The rider held onto the driver with his right hand to maintain his balance. He gripped an automatic pistol with his left hand . The cycle jumped the curb, causing frightened pedestrians to scatter, clearing a path to the assailants' intended target.

To Aziz's little girl, the Vulcan was a horrible monster swooping down on her. She screamed hysterically, hugging her daddy, her mommy, and Elmo. The baby started crying as his mother held him in her arms, his pacifier falling out of his mouth and onto the sidewalk. Aziz's wife was so terrified that she froze, unable to move a muscle. "Get down!" Peter shouted as he encircled Foggy and the Aziz family with his arms and practically shoved them behind a nearby pretzel cart.

Confident that his charges were shielded from harm, Peter stepped into the path of the oncoming motorcycle, intending to disable it with a web ball. But before he could even draw a bead, he saw Matt hurl some kind of cylindrical object at the bike. It was an extremely well-timed, incredibly precise shot that knocked the rider's pistol out of his hand just as he was taking aim at where he thought Aziz was. The Vulcan wobbled momentarily at the impact of the club before righting itself. The rider screamed in pain as the bike sped away, yet somehow managed to keep from falling off. But Peter did not have time to ponder how a blind man could throw an object with such power and deadly accuracy. He was already in hot pursuit of the would-be killers, moving so fast that he appeared as a blur to everyone . . .

. . . Everyone, that is, except Matt Murdock, whose radar-like sensory capabilities enabled him to hear, see, smell, and touch at frequencies far beyond the normal range of human senses. Air currents, invisible to everyone else, looked to Matt like a vibrant, luminescent sea of blue that made stationary and slow-moving objects stand out in sharp, shadowy relief. Fast-moving objects, on the other hand, left phosphorescent trails bright as comets. Thus, in this strange and beautiful world, Peter appeared to Matt as a streak of blue light that disappeared into a nearby alley and emerged seconds later . . . more than fifty feet above the ground. Matt watched in amazement as Peter took to the skies, carried along by some kind of bungee cord. _Pete_, he recalled, thinking back to his encounter with the people behind the billboard. _His girlfriend called him "Pete." _At that moment, the last piece of the puzzle that was Peter Parker finally fell neatly into place.

But Matt's attention quickly returned to his client's safety. "Are you all right, Mr. Aziz?" Matt asked Peter's ex-boss, reassuringly.

Severely traumatized, Aziz nodded as he held his still-catatonic wife and screaming children in his arms. "It's all right. We're okay now," he whispered soothingly to them in Arabic.

Matt patted the children gently on the head to calm them down. He was as tender toward the helpless as he was merciless toward evildoers. Seeing this, Aziz's wife became animated again, apparently feeling safe now that the danger had passed.

"We 've got to get you to safer ground." Matt said to Aziz urgently. "I suggest that you and your family accompany my partner back to our law office and wait there until this thing blows over. Whoever did this might try again. Is that all right with you?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Murdock, by all means!" Aziz gasped, still shell-shocked by the thought that his life could have ended that day. He'd heard horror stories about post-traumatic stress syndrome from friends of his who had fought in Iraq, and prayed fervently that he and his family be spared from permanent psychological harm.

"Get a cab," Matt ordered his partner as he quickly helped Foggy and the Aziz family to their feet.

"I'm on it," Foggy said, still shaken by the near ambush. He wobbled hastily to the curbside and flagged down an approaching taxi. When the cab arrived, Foggy helped the Aziz family into the back seat. Then he climbed into the front seat and gave the driver the address of his law firm.

"As soon as you get to the office, call Brinks and tell them to send over two guards," Matt instructed Foggy just before the cab pulled away. Brinks was a security firm that Nelson and Murdock retained whenever they needed extra protection for a client. This was one such occasion.

"But Matt, what about you?" Foggy asked apprehensively through the taxicab's rolled-down window.

"I've got something I need to check out." Matt replied somewhat cryptically, not wanting to alarm his partner any further. "Wait for my call before you send Mr. Aziz home."

"Will do," Foggy called back as the cab drove off. Matt quickly retrieved his club and transformed it back into a cane. He hailed another cab and got in himself, oblivious to the stares of the passers-by who were gaping at the sight of a blind man summoning a taxi.

Matt's keen legal mind went into overdrive as he rode back to the Kitchen. He'd already deduced that the attempt on Aziz's life had something to do with that cell phone call he'd picked up in the courtroom. _But what?_ he asked himself, frustrated that the answers were not forthcoming as fast as he would've liked. Someone had obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to try and get Aziz deported. Was it possible that Aziz's acquittal had dealt an unexpected setback to whomever it was that wanted him out of the country?

One thing was certain—he wasn't going to get answers just sitting around. Throughout the ride, he stretched his hypersensitive hearing as far is it could go, listening intently for any police radio activity that might give a hint of what was unfolding. Without really knowing why, he had an inkling that something huge was about to go down. He would have find out what it was. . . and fast. Which meant that, for the first time in his life, Daredevil would have to make a daylight appearance . . . and would probably cross paths with Spider-Man, who, without a doubt, was already on the case. _Well, it had to happen sooner or later_, Matt thought as he mulled over the prospect of the two heroes coming together.

He had mixed feelings. Although Spider-Man's bravery was beyond question, he had a reputation of being a wise guy, or so Foggy kept saying in his running commentaries on the tabloids. _He's young_, Matt mused, _and most twenty-year-olds tend to be a little cavalier anyway_. On the other hand, Peter had exhibited a maturity beyond his years when he testified at Aziz's hearing . . . a maturity no doubt forged by his being forced to assume adult responsibilities far too early in life. The _Daily Bugle's _unflattering portrait of the webslinger did not quite square with Matt's personal experience of the young man. Given the urgency of the present situation, Matt decided he would swallow whatever misgivings he might have and accept Spider-Man as a partner, at least on this mission. _But I've got to be cautious_, he thought, _and not lay all my cards on the table right away_.

He listened to the myriad noises with intense focus, struggling to sift out a gem here and there from piles of useless ore. He was so intent on what he was doing that he did not realize that the cab had stopped in front of his brownstone. The cabbie, a swarthy, heavyset man sporting a _Hell's Angels_ tattoo on his arm, shouted in a thick Brooklyn accent, "Hey Mac, you wanna get movin? I got udda custamas!"

"Sorry," Matt apologized as he got out of the cab, peeled a twenty from a roll of bills in his pocket, and handed it to the fat cabbie.

"Thoity chief," the cabbie snapped, "you still owe me ten bucks."

"I thought it was twenty," Matt said, with utmost patience. Having lived in New York City his whole life, Matt had a pretty good idea of what cab fares should be. He had ridden to and from the Downtown area so many times that twenty dollars was ingrained in his memory.

"Thoity," the driver repeated, an undercurrent of defensiveness in his voice.

"Check your meter," Matt responded in a soft, but no-nonsense tone. Although he could not read the meter himself, he knew from the sudden flutter of the cabbie's heartbeat that the fare was twenty dollars and not thirty. And it angered him to no end that this greedy son of a bitch was trying to rob him blind . . . literally. While the amount was trivial, the principle was not.

"Thoity," the fat cabbie insisted, not realizing the trouble he was getting himself into.

"Sir," Matt continued, in full cross-examination mode, "I am a trial attorney. I get paid big bucks to know when people are telling the truth. And right now, I know for a fact that you are lying about the fare, so don't waste my time trying to convince me that I owe you any amount other than the twenty dollars I already paid you. If you persist in carrying on this little charade, you will be in violation of numerous federal, state, and local laws protecting the rights of disabled individuals, not to mention guilty of fraud, in which case you could add imprisonment to a hefty fine and indefinite suspension of your license to operate a taxi."

The cabbie was too flabbergasted to reply. He just sat behind the wheel of his cab, his mouth hanging open.

"On the other hand, if you are willing to forget those ten dollars, I am willing to forget this incident," Matt continued in a conciliatory tone. When the cabbie didn't respond, Matt asked coolly, "Do we have an understanding then?"

Matt took the cabdriver's continued silence as a yes. "I bid you good day then, sir," he said as he walked away without bothering to close the door. He heard the cabbie mutter, "muthafuckin uppity lawyah!" before driving away.

_You have no idea,_ Matt thought menacingly as he prepared to exchange his charcoal grey suit for a crimson one.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

High above Downtown, Spider-Man spotted the Vulcan 2000 as it headed north on Lafayette Street, weaving in and out of traffic. Off in the distance, he heard a siren._ Good_, he thought approvingly, _the cops are on this too._ Like Matt Murdock, Spider-Man was sure that the attack on Mr. Aziz was triggered by that cell phone conversation. The notion someone wanted his former employer dead seemed so farfetched, but the evidence was unmistakable.

As he pursued the bike, his spider-sense was coming through as a low-level buzzing in the back of his head, without the seeming slow-down in the external environment that signaled imminent danger. The buzzing sensation indicated caution, and that was exactly how he intended to proceed.

Spider-Man saw the Vulcan suddenly turn left at Canal Street, traveling west for a few blocks. Then it made a sharp right onto 6th Avenue, and was once again heading north. _Do those idiots really think they can outrun me_? he thought contemptuously as he pulled ahead of the bike. At the intersection of 6th Avenue and 28th Street, he landed a ledge ten stories up. It would give him perfect leverage for what he was about to do.

Perched in his sniper's nest, Spider-Man took aim at the rapidly approaching motorcycle. At the optimal moment, he fired three webshots. The first shot snagged the rider, the second caught the driver, and the third stopped the bike itself. Unfortunately, he was unable to prevent traffic from piling up behind the disabled Vulcan. He hoped that no one got hurt.

Once he was confident that Aziz's attackers were secured in his webbing, Spider-Man dragged them up the side of the building, a dizzying journey of sixty-five stories that took less than three minutes. At first, they thrashed about like hooked swordfish struggling to break free. But once they saw the direction in which they were heading, they decided that it was far wiser not to resist. They went limp, hanging like dead weights over Midtown Manhattan while Spider-Man pulled them toward the roof of the skyscraper. As they got closer, he was able to make out expressions of terrified disbelief under their helmets. Those expressions changed to outright horror once he yanked them over the concrete retaining wall that surrounded the roof. _I must look like some sort of faceless demon to them_,Spider-Man thought coldly as he smiled beneath his mask, taking grim satisfaction in his ability to strike fear into criminals' hearts the way Flash Thompson had once struck fear into his.

Before the two would-be assassins could put up any resistance, Spider-Man bound them, back-to- back, using cords of webbing as thick as ropes, and hundreds of times more powerful. They were tied together so tightly that they could not move a muscle. Spider-Man checked the cords to make sure that their circulation was not cut off. Then he wrapped them in a cocoon of gossamer strands, spinning them like a top with one hand while shaping his web with the other. He'd spun them around so fast that they quickly became nauseous and lost their balance.

Spider-Man yanked off their helmets, impatient to get his first close look at the assailants. Like Hagdabi, they appeared to be of middle eastern extraction, although he was unable to tell precisely where they were from. The taller of the two, the rider, sported a thick mustache and had streaks of blonde running through his otherwise dark hair. The driver was clean-shaven, but had a deep scar running down his right cheek. Both wore defiant expressions on their faces, hoping that the strange creature who held them captive wouldn't notice how frightened they really were.

"You guys are obviously out-of- towners," Spider-Man said, trying to keep both his cool and his sense of humor under the stressful circumstances of having to interrogate foreign nationals who might not understand English. "In case you didn't know, you need a license to carry a firearm in this state."

The two men just stared resolutely ahead, saying nothing.

"You want to tell me why you tried to kill that man back there?" Spider-Man continued, not really expecting much cooperation on their part. "You're not going anywhere until you do."

They remained silent.

"Well?" Spider-Man prompted, holding his temper in check, "we have lots of time."

"Fuck you, infidel!" the driver snapped bitterly in a heavy Spanish accent.

"I'm Catholic, if you really want to know," Spider-Man responded nonchalantly, inwardly relieved that at least he would not have to worry about a language barrier. The fact that the man might be from Europe or Latin America surprised him, though, and complicated his mental efforts to figure out who Aziz's attackers were and what they were up to.

"You are scum!" the rider snarled with an unmistakable middle eastern accent, his eyes blazing, his face twisted into a mask of hatred. "You are human refuse! And we are going to wipe you out, you and your whole fucking city, right off the face of the Earth! The Apocalypse is coming, just like your Book of Revelations says! We're going to finish the job we started on September 11th! This den of filth is going to be swallowed up by the Great Satan's own fires!"

As soon as he heard those maniacal ravings, Spider-Man realized exactly what he was dealing with. These guys were members of Al Qaeda. He had no doubt now that New York City was in for another terrorist attack. And he understood that the responsibility for stopping that attack was about to fall squarely on his shoulders.

The driver chimed in with more murderous threats. "It doesn't matter what you do to us!" he hissed like a cobra about to lash out. "There are thousands of warriors, in every country, getting ready to wage holy jihad against you! We can strike you at anytime, any place, and when we're finished here, we'll bring disaster on all your cities! We'll cut your womens' heads off and revel in sucking your childrens' blood! So, go ahead and send us to paradise! There are plenty more waiting to take our place."

"Shut the fuck up!" Spider-Man screamed as a deluge of awful memories, thoughts, and emotions swept through his already-scarred psyche. Like most New Yorkers, Peter Parker remembered exactly where he was and what he was doing on that beautiful, peaceful, late Summer day in 2001, the only day on which his thoughts did not center on Mary Jane. School had just gotten under way when suddenly everyone was sent home, no reason given. When he arrived at his aunt and uncle's house, he found them glued to the television set. He vividly recalled the utter horror he felt as he watched the magnificent Twin Towers collapse after the hijacked jetliners plowed into them. He sat with them for hours in front of the TV, staring numbly at the pile of dust, rubble, bones, and blood that only one day before had been one of the most important commerce centers in the world. His despair soon turned to anger at those responsible for this terrible atrocity. For days afterward, he repeated over and over the vow made by every policeman and fireman in the city. . . _Never again!_

And now, as Spider-Man, he faced the very real possibility that thousands more could perish in a sequel to September 11th, including those dearest to him. He never felt more frantic and terrified of failure than he did at that moment. For all he knew, Aunt May could be out shopping and Mary Jane could be riding the subway . . . and he would be powerless to save them. That thought alone nearly paralyzed him.

At the same time, he felt an almost uncontrollable fury welling up from deep inside, a fury that soon dwarfed the hatred his captives had expressed moments before. Only two other people had been the objects of anger this intense . . . the thief for murdering his uncle Ben, and the Green Goblin for nearly killing M.J. And both of them were dead. Peter knew that he had to control his temper, since these men could prove to be valuable sources of intelligence. Nevertheless, he resolved that he would use every means at his disposal to find out exactly what it was these barbarians were planning. And he knew from his captives' initial reactions that they were afraid of him, despite their extreme militancy. That suggested that maybe they weren't as willing to die for their cause as they would have him believe.

Spider-Man decided to test his theory. "All right, here's the deal!" he barked angrily. "I ask questions, and you give me answers. And if you don't tell me what I want to know, or if I don't like what I'm hearing, I throw your asses off the roof. Capito?" He hoped, for their sakes, that they would cooperate.

They did not, at least not at first. The driver, his features deformed by his own hate, tried to spit in Spider-Man's face. Alerted by his own unique brand of precognition, Spider-Man leaned sharply to the side and easily avoided the saliva projectile. But the driver's brazen defiance finally sent him over the edge.

"Now see, that's not the kind of cooperation I would've expected from someone in your position," he seethed, fury rippling through his entire body even as he kept his voice low. "I think you guys really need to learn a lesson." Spider-Man lifted the two of them over his head as effortlessly as the Hulk had lifted the tank, and without another word, hurled them upward with every ounce of strength he had. The two of them shot up over a thousand feet before their trajectory slowed, stopped, and reversed.

All thoughts of meeting seventy virgins in heavenly paradise abruptly vanished from the two terrorists's minds as they found themselves in free fall. Instead, their eyes bulged in horror as they saw the street rushing up to meet them at a frightening speed.

Spider-Man heard their terrified screams as they plummeted toward 6th Avenue. _Maybe martyrdom isn't really that appealing once it becomes imminent_, he thought wryly. Operating at superhuman speed, Spider-Man effortlessly tracked the men as they fell. He snagged them with a perfectly-timed webshot just as they were about to strike a passing bus.

Just when they were sure that they would hit the bus, the two Al Qaeda operatives felt their fall being broken by a highly elastic bungee cord. Their rescue was so precise that they actually touched the bus very lightly before being hauled swiftly back up the side of the building from which they were thrown by that spider-demon. Miraculously, neither man had sustained whiplash injuries. But they were so frightened at the prospect of an early martyrdom all over the streets of Manhattan that many of their bodily functions were shutting down. As a result, the rider lost control of his bladder while the driver lost control of his bowels.

As Spider-Man brought the two slugs to within ten feet the roof, his nostrils were offended by the foul odor of human excrement. He turned his head away in disgust, holding his left hand over his mouth and nose. In his right hand, he held the webline gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, as if he were holding a dead rat by the tail. The men were still dangling over six hundred feet above 6th Avenue.

"Now, are you guys gonna talk or do we do the human yo-yo trick again?" Spider-Man demanded sharply as he dragged their dead weight back over the retaining wall, a glimmer of humor finding its way into an otherwise serious situation. Such improvisational comedy was very often the only way he could keep his fear and anger from spiraling out of control.

The two of them started talking . . . in Arabic. They were mocking his ignorance of their operation with their incomprehensible babble, which made him even madder. As thoughts of M.J., Aunt May, and even J. Jonah Jameson and Harry Osborn flashed across this mind, he was beginning to wonder if the terrorists' plans had already been set into motion. His nerves were stretched to the breaking point, and he decided that he wasn't going to waste any more time with this subhuman trash, who had already pushed him into doing things that were beyond the bounds of human decency.

"You clowns just don't get it, do you," Spider-Man said, a deadly venom lurking beneath his casual bravado. "I'm not subject to the Geneva Convention!"

Now that those scum were covered in their own filth, he no longer wanted to touch them directly. Thinking fast, he started to whirl them around as though he were an Olympic hammer thrower. "This'll be a world's record if you guys land in the Hudson River," he shouted mockingly at them. Fortunately, the two men wisely concluded that life was better than martyrdom after all. "All right, we'll talk!" the driver screamed, "We'll talk." Spider-Man stopped theircircular momentum and set them down, but kept them far enough away that he would not have to smell them. "Don't you dare bullshit me!" he yelled. "If you lie to me, I may not be inclined to save you if you happen to fall off this building again. Now, tell me exactly what it is that you're up to!"

The rider talked first. "Dirty bombs . . . in the subways," he said with a calm casualness that belied an intent to murder thousands in cold blood. Spider-Man's eyes widened in horror beneath his mask as he found himself looking straight into the face of evil. He had never dealt directly with terrorists before, and could not even begin to understand what motivated them. Unlike the Goblin and Doc Ock, once decent human beings whose sanity ended as a result of their own hubris, these jihadists were perfectly rational people whose very sense of identity derived from mass destruction of life and limb. That anyone would willingly be a part of such evil was totally beyond his comprehension.

"How many people are involved?" Spider-Man demanded in a low growl.

"Eighteen,and another one hundred for logistical support." the rider gasped.

"Where's your base?"

"A big warehouse on the West Side waterfront, around 23rd Street," the driver responded after pausing briefly to catch his breath. Spider-Man knew that area quite well. It was a short distance from the Village.

"Where did you plant the bombs?" he snapped. "What stations?"

"We don't know," the driver gasped, whimpering like a frightened puppy. "We weren't privy to that information."

"You're lying!" Spider-Man shouted, fighting once again to control the anger that was again building up inside him, anger intensified by a crippling fear that he would not be able to prevent this catastrophe. He wanted nothing more than to reduce these two pigs to pulp with his bare hands, but his rage was tempered by his desire to extract as much information as he could get from them. Struggling to find a way to satisfy these conflicting impulses, Spider-Man decided to test their reactions. Holding his breath to avoid inhaling the stench that surrounded them, he grabbed them and lifted them over his shoulders as if he was going to hurl them into the urban abyss once more.

"Tell me where you planted those bombs right now, or I'll send you on your way to Allah!" he shouted as he turned his head way from them.

"I swear! We don't know!" they both screamed in unison.

" How many devices all together?" Spider-Man barked.

"We really don't know," the driver responded, terrified. The man was clearly frightened out of his wits, notwithstanding his earlier ravings about a world-wide jihad. "We weren't privy to those discussions."

"When?" Spider-Man demanded.

"They've already started placing the devices." the rider replied, reduced to a quivering jelly like his cohort. "They'll probably set them to go off within the next 24 hours."

That answer sent chills up Spider-Man's spine. Reluctantly, he put them down, knowing that this was all the information he was likely to get out of them. Large scale terrorist operations of this nature tended to be highly compartmentalized, with each operative knowing only what was necessary to do his job. Spider-Man did not even bother to ask them about Aziz. For all he knew, they were just carrying out orders and wouldn't have a clue about who gave those orders and why.

The sound of police sirens filtered up from the street below. Spider-Man peered over the retaining wall. From sixty five stories up, he was able to see that the cops had arrived on the scene and were surrounding the wrecked Vulcan 2000.

"All right, let's go!" he said to his captives as he spun another webline, attached it to them, and gently lowered them over the side. When the cord had reached thirty feet in length, he climbed rapidly down with them, using his feet and his left hand to adhere to the side of the building while he held his webline in his right hand.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

A young, somewhat overzealous police officer spotted Spider-Man crawling down the side of a Midtown skyscraper carrying what appeared to be a large cocoon. "Hold it right there, webhead!" he shouted, drawing his gun.

"Wait a minute, Joe," his older, more seasoned partner said as he grabbed the younger cop's service revolver and shoved it back in its holster. "Good afternoon Spider-Man," he called out calmly and politely, knowing perfectly well that the masked man was on their side. "I'm Officer Paul Davis, and this is Officer Joe Santelle. What do you have for us today?"

Spider-Man deposited his bundle of human garbage onto the sidewalk, leaped off the wall of the building, and landed right in front of the younger officer, who couldn't stop gaping. Flies were already starting to buzz around the two thugs, attracted by aromas that only flies could appreciate.

"Gentlemen," Spider-Man said grimly, addressing both officers, "I'm afraid that I have some very bad news." The cops knew at once that the situation was serious, because the webslinger did not make any of his usual wisecracks.

"These two are part of an Al Qaeda terrorist plot to blow up the New York City subway system." he continued. "They're operating out of a waterfront warehouse just off West 23rd Street. They may have already placed some of the bombs in various subway stops. I wasn't able to find out where or when. That was all I could get out of them."

Both policemen looked stunned.

"What kind of bombs?" Officer Davis asked, an expression of grave concern appearing on his face.

"Radiological," Spider-Man replied, holding back panic, "Dirty bombs."

"He's crazy!" Officer Santelle sneered.

"He seems perfectly rational to me," Officer Davis said. This older cop reminded Spider-Man very much of Robbie Robertson, with his quiet demeanor and determination to get all the facts before jumping to conclusions. "The FBI told us that this was likely to be Al Qaeda's next move." Officer Davis continued. "Dirty bombs aren't that hard to build, and they could be easily hidden."

"So, what do we do?" Santelle asked anxiously, starting to mull over the enormous consequences of failing to stop another terrorist attack.

"I think we'd better take his warning seriously." suggested Davis resolutely.

"Thank you!" a grateful Spider-Man said to the grizzled veteran of the NYPD.

"No, it's we who ought to thank you." Davis responded. "Do you want any kind of assistance?"

Santelle's jaw fell. He could not believe that his partner was actually going to order back-up for this nutcase who thought that every day was Halloween. It was a serious breach of police regulations that would surely invite an inquiry from Internal Affairs.

Noting the shocked expression on his youthful partner's face, Davis smiled. "I'm retiring in two weeks, remember?" he said cheerfully. "By the time Internal Affairs gets around to it, I'll be soaking up the sun in the Virgin Islands." He winked at Spider-Man as a sign of encouragement.

"There are close to one hundred and twenty men involved in this operation," Spider-Man warned Davis. "You'll need lots and lots of back ups. And probably S.W.A.T. units as well." And before Officer Davis could respond, he jumped high into the air, fired a webline, and took off in the direction of the warehouse. The two officers followed his trajectory until he disappeared between two nearby office buildings.

"Okay, Joe, let's turn these guys over to the F.B.I." Davis ordered.

Santelle moved in to collar the suspects. As he got close to them, he got a good whiff. "Phew!" the patrolman said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

It was a race against the clock now. Spider-Man had to get to that warehouse as soon as possible if he was to have any hope of uncovering the rest of the plot and saving the city. Once again, he felt himself being crushed under the weight of this awesome, terrible responsibility, a far heavier burden than the wall that he had once kept from falling on Mary Jane. If he failed in this mission, then hundreds of people would perish, thousands more would suffer radiation poisoning, and the economies of the city, the country, and the world would be seriously damaged. He shuddered to think that he stumbled onto the plot only by sheer coincidence. _This can't be happening!_ he despaired.

But as he swung between skyscrapers, a familiar serenity began to settle over him, as it usually did when he was in flight. And then, as he passed by yet another _Emma Rose Parfumerie_ billboard, he heard inside his mind the soft, sweet, musical voice of the red-haired angel who loved him more than anything else on Earth.

_Go get 'em tiger_.


	11. Summit in An Air Duct

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

"**Hazmats" is industrial shorthand for "hazardous materials."**

**Nunchakus, also referred to as "nunchucks," are a pair of sticks, usually made of wood, that are joined by a chain or cord and used as a weapon in various martial arts.**

"**Recon," is short for "reconnaissance."**

**Cesium 137 is a common radioactive isotope often used in hospitals. Terrorism experts believe that it could be used in a radiological device, i.e., "dirty bomb."**

**Peter Parker's last line of dialogue in this chapter is inspired by Russell Crowe's line in _Gladiator_: "At my signal, unleash hell!"**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XI**

**SUMMIT IN AN AIR DUCT**

A harried Ben Urich sat in his cubicle at the _New York Times_, trying to meet a five o'clock deadline. A balding, bespectacled, medium-sized man in his mid-sixties, Urich was a reporter's reporter. His sharp journalistic mind, knack for storytelling, and chameleon-like ability to blend into his surroundings earned him numerous accolades from his peers, most recently his fourth _Pulitzer_ Prize for an exposé on Wilson Fisk. As the senior crime reporter for the _New York Times_, Urich was at the pinnacle of his career. He'd turned down numerous editorial posts over the course of his career, not wanting to leave the beats where he made his reputation.

Ben Urich was everything that J. Jonah Jameson used to be as a journalist. Many times, Urich recalled fondly how he, Jameson, and Robbie Robertson made their reputations when they were cub reporters in the 1960s, covering the civil rights struggles for the _Daily Bugle_. They'd endured police beatings in Alabama and been carted off to jail in Mississippi, not to mention threatened with death by no less a personage than the Grand Imperial Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan himself. But their hard-hitting, no-holds-barred commitment to getting out the truth about what was going on down in Dixie helped expose the southern segregationists for what they were and earned the gratitude of Dr. King and other civil rights leaders of the time. The three of them were jointly awarded a _Pulitzer_ Prize for national reporting in 1963.

Sadly, Ben and Jonah had experienced a falling out nearly twenty years ago, and had despised each other ever since. In Urich's view, Jameson had abandoned journalistic integrity to become a trash-peddler when he turned the _Bugle_ into a tabloid after becoming its editor-at-large. If there was one thing that Urich detested more than anything else in the newspaper business, it was editors who insisted on slanting the news to fit their personal views, and Jameson had been doing that long before Spider-Man arrived on the scene. Urich had quit the _Bugle_ in disgust after Jameson tried to put a negative slant on a piece he did on the efforts of the Manhattan borough president to institute neighborhood watches during the mid eighties. He still remembered the last conversation they had, a bitter confrontation that took place in Jameson's office:

"_Damn you Ben, you're so naive! Cohen's been pushing this neighborhood watch garbage to divert attention from his own failure to get enough police on the streets. And he'sdipping into the city's payroll too, no doubt. He's not fit to be a trash collector!" Jameson screamed, furious at Urich for trying to bypass him and get the article directly to print._

"_And I'm telling you Jonah that you're screwing up on this one!" Urich roared back, refusing to be cowed. "Cohen's proposal's got the endorsement of the mayor, the city counsel and the police union! Everyone thinks it's a good idea. No one's ever accused him of any financial improprieties. Just leave my article the hell alone before you damage our reputation even further!"_

Urich could not recall the rest of that exchange. All he could remember was that he walked out of Jameson's office and out of the _Daily Bugle_ within five minutes of that conversation, and hadn't been back since. He was still close to Robbie Robertson, however. They talked on the phone nearly every day and had lunch together at least twice a week. Ben hoped that new corporate ownership would eventually take over the _Bugle_, fire Jameson, and put Robbie in charge, so that the once-venerated publication could recover its lost reputation. That reputation had worsened when word got around that Jonah had become so obsessed with his crusade against Spider-Man that he completely missed the Wilson-Fisk-is-the-Kingpin story. _That would never have happened in the old days_,Ben thought, nostalgically.

Ben Urich knew more people, had more sources, and held more secrets than anyone else in the profession, including the secret identity of one of New York's costumed vigilantes. He had discovered Matt Murdock's alter-ego after years of persistent, painstaking journalistic grit. His big break came in the forensics lab of the city morgue. Jack Kirby, one of his more reliable sources, showed him that Daredevil's billy club was really Matt Murdock's cane. The give-away was the dual emblem on the handle . . . the angel's face on one side and the devil's face on the other.

The identity of the other remained a mystery. If he had really wanted to uncover Spider-Man's secret, it would've been short work for him. But fortunately for Peter, and for Matt Murdock as well, Ben Urich had a knack for knowing which stories to print and which ones to bury. Spider-Man's secret fell into the latter category. . . and with good reason. Over his long career, Ben had come to see the Big Apple as a living, breathing organism whose numerous systems had to remain in delicate balance if the organism was to survive. Spider-Man and Daredevil represented that balance. They were antibodies, constantly fighting off infections. If it weren't for them, those infections might well mutate out of control or mushroom into fatal illnesses. Bluntly put, exposing Spider-Man would upset the balance so vital to New York's fragile ecosystem, and Ben Urich wasn't going to be the one to do it.

How astonished Ben would have been if he were discover that he'd been having lunch with Spider-Man every week for nearly two years. Ben had met Peter shortly after Peter started working as a photojournalist. The star reporter took an instant liking to the bright young shutterbug, even though Peter worked for the_ Bugle_ while he worked for the _Post_. He was impressed with the quality of Peter's photographs and the lengths to which Peter went to get those shots. Peter also reminded him very much of his own son, Philip, now a 40-year old patent attorney in San Diego.

They often found themselves covering the same stories, and as a result, began to have lunch together at least once a week to exchange tips and tales. Ben listened in amusement to Peter's horror stories about J. Jonah Jameson's latest tirades. And he enjoyed Peter's befuddlement at the notion that J. Jonah Jameson had once been a crusader for civil rights. He was very much looking forward to meeting Peter at Ryan's on Wednesday. Ryan's was a Mid-town watering hole for journalists where they'd been getting together lately.

Hunched over his computer, Urich was still wearing the same rumpled olive-colored suit that he had worn for the last three days. The tie that went with that suit was creased and torn. His wife Laurie constantly nagged him about his chain-smoking and his propensity to dress like a skid-row bum. On the latter, he told her repeatedly that he needed that particular apparel in order to get close to potential stories. Regarding the former, he finally yielded to unrelenting pressure from Laurie and Philip, and went cold-turkey.

Urich had been nicotine free for nearly nine months, having taken up _Nicorette_ gum instead. Unfortunately, he had gained a few pounds and was not happy about having to visit the gym regularly, something he hadn't felt the need to do for over twenty years.

He was about two-thirds away through the edits of the final draft on his article on crime statistics when his cell phone rang. _Oh man_, he groaned, _why does Laurie always call me when I have to get something out?_ He flipped the phone open and held it close to his ear.

"Yeah," he snapped, thinking his wife was calling him to pick up some deli sandwiches on the way home. But for once it wasn't Laurie.

"Listen up Urich!" said a harsh masculine voice. "It's Detective Manolis."

"Nick," Urich repeated, knowing that this was not a social call. The Kingpin story that had won Urich his latest _Pulitzer_ and his job with the _Times_ had also won Nick Manolis a promotion to captain. Manolis, knowing that he owed his latest career milestone to Urich, developed a newfound respect for the intrepid reporter. He was anxious to show his gratitude, and thereafter, willingly became one of Ben Urich's most important sources, a privilege the sharp, streetwise detective did not extend to anyone else.

"We just got a huge tip-off," Manolis told him. "Al Qaeda's back. They're gonna set off dirty bombs in the subway system."

Urich was stunned, but he kept his reaction to himself. "Nick," he said slowly and softly, "are you sure about this?"

"Absolutely!" Manolis replied, "they set up their operational HQ at some waterfront warehouse off West 23rd Street. We're bringing in S.W.A.T. teams and bomb disposal units."

"I know where you're talking about." Urich said, still keeping cool. "It's the old _Oscorp_ nuclear storage facility at West 23rd Street and 12th Avenue. Been abandoned for years."

"Right. Get down there as soon as you can. And keep this to yourself until things break." Anxious and agitated, Manolis hung up the phone without even waiting for Urich to thank him for the tip.

_Just stay cool Ben, and above all, don't panic, _Urich told himself as he reached for his cap and jacket. Suddenly, he was pumped full of adrenalin and desperate for a cigarette, which had been his chief source of stress relief for fifty years. _I'm gonna have a heart attack any day now_, he groaned to himself. Fortunately, he still had one last stick of _Nicorette_ in his pocket. He popped in his mouth and started chewing the way he used to chew erasers off pencils in the days before computers.

Then he called in Dave Harris, a cub reporter whom he was mentoring. "I gotta go," he told Harris hurriedly. "Finish this article for me. The info's all there. Get it in on time and the byline's yours." Harris, grateful for the opportunity to shine, eagerly got down to his new assignment.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Matt Murdock was standing on the roof of some unnamed mid-town skyscraper a short distance from Hell's Kitchen. He felt incredibly uneasy about having to appear as Daredevil while the sun was still up. He'd worked very hard over the years to keep his alter-ego's exploits below the press's radar screen and to remain safely ensconced within the realm of urban legend. A daylight appearance, possibly in the presence of witnesses or the ubiquitous news media, would turn the legend into reality, and there would be nothing he could do about it. Unhappily, he realized that he had no choice, because the potential for disaster in this situation was far greater than anything he'd ever faced before.

For the last hour, Daredevil had been moving rapidly along the rooftops of the city, picking up bits and pieces of police band radio traffic. It took extraordinary concentration on his part to zero in on particular frequencies without other noises drowning out what he was searching for. Unfortunately, most of what he'd been listening to had been routine police communication. Now he badly needed a break—the intense concentration was starting to give him a splitting headache.

Daredevil was about to give it a rest when all of a sudden he picked up two calls on a high-frequency band that were occurring almost simultaneously. Exerting tremendous effort to focus in on the first transmission, he learned that an arrest had just been made at the corner of 6th Avenue and West 28th Street. Only moments earlier, Spider-Man had nailed the two bozos who had tried to kill Rahi Aziz. He turned them over to the police after effectively interrogating them himself. Apparently, they told Spider-Man about some kind of terrorist plot to explode dirty bombs throughout the subway system. They proved remarkably cooperative, preferring the relative safety of a jail cell to another encounter with the webslinger. However, they had very little additional information to provide and, in all likelihood, would be shipped off to Guantanamo Bay, where God-knows what awaited them.

The second call came from Detective Captain Nick Manolis to Ben Urich's cell phone. Manolis tipped Urich off that the terrorists were using the old abandoned _Oscorp_ hazardous materials warehouse at the corner of 12th Avenue and West 23rd Street as a staging area for their operation. _That's where I'm heading_, Daredevil thought as he swan-dived off the ledge of the building and fired his grappling hook at another building across the street.

From the intelligence gleaned from these two conversations, Daredevil was able to surmise that Al Qaeda was behind the plot, and that the attack could occur within the next few days, if not the next 24 hours. This did not leave much time. The few disclosed details reflected an extremely sophisticated operation that had to have been in the works for years. He speculated that the global terrorist network had been recruiting and training highly educated operatives, many of whom had likely received engineering and science degrees at American universities. They'd probably been extensively mapping the subway networks, painstakingly identifying those stations where bombs could inflict the most damage. Then they'd had to have set up elaborate counter-surveillance strategies to avoid detection in the face of enhanced security. Even Daredevil, the man without fear, admitted to himself that Al Qaeda's methodical preparation and careful attention to detail would horrify anyone with a sense of humanity.

But something else was troubling Daredevil as he closed in on the warehouse. _Where did Rahi Aziz fit into all this?_ he wondered. Aziz was obviously not part of the operation, but the fact that he'd been targeted was a frightening reminder of how sophisticated terrorists had become after 9-11. Aziz must have been set up as a patsy. Someone, maybe Hagdabi or one of those other clowns who had testified against Aziz, must have impersonated him, making it appear that he was intimately involved in the planning and execution of a terrorist operation. Based on a large body of false evidence, the immigration authorities took the bait and tried to deport Aziz. They would have succeeded if it were not for Peter Parker's testimony and his credibility as a defense witness. The feds would have congratulated themselves on foiling Al Qaeda once again while the real operation was being carried out right under their noses. If Peter hadn't been summoned as a witness, if Aziz hadn't gotten off, and if those two goons hadn't tried to shoot him, no one would've had an inkling of what was going on and the city would've had a disaster on its hands that rivaled 9-11.

Another chilling thought plagued Daredevil as he made his way toward the terrorists' base of operations — _Why the hell did they try to kill Aziz if he didn't know anything_? The only answer he could think of was that they must have panicked. A much tighter security infrastructure had been put into place around various ports of entry, including New York City, during the years following 9-11, which significantly narrowed the windows of opportunity for terrorist strikes. They probably figured that Aziz's acquittal had blown their decoy strategy. With their timetable thrown off, they decided to carry out the operation before the security net closed around them, wanting toplug any leaks that might have sprung as a result of Aziz not getting deported. But they had blown it . . . badly. It was the attempt on Aziz's life itself that had broken the whole thing wide open.

Like Spider-Man, Daredevil began to feel enormous rage begin to well up from deep within him as the fog around Al Qaeda's latest plot began to lift. Unlike his younger counterpart, however, he did not try to suppress it. He looked forward to turning every single one of those one hundred and eighteen animals into unrecognizable lumps of flesh.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

The gigantic warehouse overlooking the pier at West 23rd Street encompassed two whole city blocks. It was a forty-story behemoth of a building, designed for one purpose . . . to provide secure storage space for the most dangerous substances that man was capable of creating.

As he approached the gargantuan facility, Spider-Man observed a red metallic sign with reflective white lettering on its huge front door: Property of Oscorp Industries — No Trespassers — Violators Will Be Prosecuted. Beneath it was a smaller sign that displayed the symbol for radioactive waste. It said: Danger — Radioactive Materials — Keep Clear.

_Those two bastards must've given me the wrong dope!_ thought Spider-Man frantically as he read the no-trespassing sign and realized who owned the building. The mere thought that his one-time best friend would provide logistical support to American's sworn enemies was just too bizarre to believe. Harry may have hated Spider-Man, and blamed him for the death of his father, but that did not make him a traitor. Then suddenly, he recalled that Harry had once told him that _Oscorp_ had abandoned the facility ten years ago, after outsourcing its storage functions to some company in India. Unfortunately, _Oscorp_ had never been able to find a buyer for the facility, and was still its registered owner. That meant that if the terrorists succeeded in carrying out their attack, _Oscorp_ would be held responsible for failing to safeguard its property. _How much more trouble could Harry possibly get into?_ Spider-Man groaned to himself._ First Octavius, and now this?_

The place seemed deserted enough. But as he got closer to the door, his spider-sense started tingling wildly. _Alarms_, he thought anxiously. _They've probably set up an alarm system throughout the building_. This place was once a high-security installation, which probably meant that the windows as well as the doors were rigged. He realized that he needed to find a way to get in without alerting the terrorists inside to his presence.

Spider-Man scurried up and down the North side of the building, looking for an entry point where he would attract the least attention. But every time he approached a window, his spider-sense went off. He could feel his skin crawl as he realized that he was losing time trying to find a window that would not trip an alarm. _This is getting depressing_, he thought. _I could be out here all afternoon just trying to find a way in . . . wait a minute_. Three quarters of the way up, his spider-sense suddenly stopped giving him a danger signal. He found himself in front of an air vent. This was it! Air vents were never hooked up to alarms. But just to make sure his spider-sense was telling him what he needed to know, he moved toward the nearest window. Sure enough, as if it were playing the children's game, _Hot Hot Cold_, his spider-sense once again signaled caution. As soon as he returned to the vent, the warning ceased.

The grating consisted of crisscrossing steel bars that were an inch thick. Using his feet to adhere to the building and give himself the necessary leverage, Spider-Man grasped the panel and pulled. Half-inch screws, made of reinforced steel, tore loose from the wall and fell, taking small chunks of concrete with them. He kept bending the grating until the opening was large enough for him to slip through.

Once inside, he found that the square-shaped air duct was quite large, nearly four feet on a side, which was more than enough to accommodate him. Unfortunately, there were no lights. He soon realized that navigating the warehouse's huge network of air ducts would be like trying to find one's way through a gigantic, three-dimensional maze in utter darkness. _I could be crawling around in here for miles before I find these guys_, he thought as moved forward, refusing to become overwhelmed by the task.

So focused was he on trying to figure out what to do next that he never saw the crimson figure that had been tracking him for the last half hour.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Daredevil had locked onto Spider-Man's heartbeat from a distance of ten city blocks. That heartbeat, with its strong, steady rhythm, stood out like a homing beacon against the cacophony of background noise that constantly bombarded him. Daredevil landed gracefully on the roof of the warehouse after a sixteen-story leap from an adjacent office building, just as Spider-Man vanished. Peering over the side,Daredevil perceived jets of blue luminescence shoot out of the wall in several places, the closest being ten stories directly beneath him. Standing out against that blue current was what appeared to be a grating that had been ripped open.

_Smart move_, Daredevil thought admiringly, _he's avoided tripping the alarms_. Even from as far away as several blocks, Daredevil could hear the low hum of the alarm system that coursed throughout the building, covering every door and window. Maybe this Spider-Man wasn't quite such a cowboy after all. He seemed to know exactly what to do in order to avoid detection by his adversaries.

Daredevil quickly flipped open his grappling hook, secured himself to the railing and lowered himself toward the open air vent. As he got closer, the noise from the air currents grew louder. To his sensitive ears, the breezes made by the industrial air-circulation system sounded like a fierce hurricane. When he reached the vent, he found three other telltale signs of Spider-Man's presence besides the ripped-up grating: the faint, barely perceptible scent of perspiration mixed with spandex; tiny traces of the electrical charges left by Spider-Man's hands and feet; and the webslinger's signature heartbeat. He could also detect numerous other heartbeats as well, over one hundred. But the webslinger's was so strong and powerful that it was almost drowning out the others.

As soon as Daredevil slid through the opening, he found a space large enough to crawl around in. But what looked like silent darkness to Spider-Man was for him a loud, rushing river of blue luminesence . Daredevil began to follow the trail Spider-Man had left. After he had gone about one hundred feet, he noticed that the mixture of sweat and static electricity that he'd been honing in on suddenly stopped. No . . . it simply changed direction . . . dropping straight down for two hundred and fifty feet. Such a jump would normally be routine to him, but this situation was anything but routine. Above all else, stealth was required, and the sound of his boots hitting the bottom after a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot drop would betray his location to whomever was holed up inside the building. Slowly and carefully, he lowered himself into the vertical shaft, pressed his arms and legs against the sheet metal walls to keep from free-falling, and descended ten to fifteen feet at a time.

When he reached the bottom, Daredevil encountered a perplexing intersection. There were two crisscrossing horizontal passages that were perpendicular to each other. One of the ducts ran in a North-South direction while the other ran from East to West. _Where to next, my enterprising young friend_? he asked himself as he detected the webslinger moving East. Spider-Man's trail was much easier to follow now. Not only was the perspiration still present, but the traces of his electrical handprints and footprints were much brighter.

Twenty feet down the shaft, the trail suddenly stopped. Daredevil looked around, momentarily confused, since he was still picking up Spider-Man's heartbeat, which by now was quite loud, almost overpowering. He looked up . . . and saw Spider-Man's electrical imprints on the "ceiling."

Daredevil followed the upside-down imprints through a maze of passages, until he found another long shaft. Light was coming from the far end of the shaft, illuminating the blue haze more intensely. Straining to "see" into that rippling, phosphorescent blue field, Daredevil was able to make out a shadowy figure about one hundred feet ahead of him . . . crawling upside down along the ceiling. The figure stopped its forward movement when it reached the bright light. As he moved closer to that light, Daredevil perceived that it was coming from an enormous room within the warehouse, and that a grating similar to the one he had observed outside was covering that vent as well.

Appearing to Daredevil as a dark silhouette, Spider-Man crouched upside down, peering out of the grating. Daredevil was quite impressed with the way that Spider-Man had unerringly led him right to their quarry. But the intense pounding of Spider-Man's heart, coupled with the faint scent of perspiration, warned Daredevil that the younger man was under tremendous stress. He moved forward cautiously, not wanting to startle a tense, wired Spider-Man into making any sudden, violent moves. Spider-Man's heartbeat was so loud that it ricocheted off the walls of the air shaft, and nearly obscured the one hundred and eighteen heartbeats coming from beyond the grating.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

The darkness turned out not to be such an insurmountable obstacle for Spider-Man after all. Apparently, his genetic alterations included an arachnid's three-sixty spacial orientation and navigational prowess. These capabilities enabled him to move in any direction, and to use his spider-sense not only to avoid obstacles, but to find the shortest passage to his destination. Earlier, his spider-sense had alerted him to the presence of a very long drop, which he was able to scale without any difficulty whatsoever. He also discovered, rather quickly, that he could move much faster, and in complete silence, if he crawled upside-down along the top of the ducts rather than the bottom.

Spider-Man began to hear voices as soon as he reached the bottom of the vertical shaft. He followed those voices as they became louder, making three sharp turns, two to the left and one to the right. As soon as he made that last turn, he saw a another vent about a hundred feet away, also covered by a thick steel grating. Once he reached that vent, he peered into what looked like a colossal storage room. Rows of full-strength industrial halogen lamps on the ceiling lit up the room. Unfortunately, one of those lights hung directly in front of the vent, partially obscuring his view of the floor, five stories down. On the opposite wall, he could barely make out a white board covered with diagrams. But he was too far away to comprehend any details of those drawings.

The voices he'd been hearing were very distinct now. But, to his utter dismay, no one was speaking English. He could make out conversations in French, German, Spanish, and Italian. Of the latter he could understand only a few words here and there, since the speech was too fast and most of his high-school Italian was long forgotten. But two words he heard repeatedly almost caused him to panic: _esplosione_ and _radioattivo_. He recognized those words only because his physics professor required her students to become cognizant of foreign developments in the field. _Goddammit,_ he screamed silently,_ time's running out and I still don't know what the hell's going on down there!_

All of a sudden, his spider-sense spiked. _Someone's spotted me!_ Spider-Man thought frantically, _and he's coming up from behind! Jesus Christ, did they have closed-circuit TV monitors or something?_ He whipped around to face the intruder, still adhering to the top of the ventilator shaft. As he did, he saw a figure gradually emerge from the shadows.

"Who are you!" Spider-Man demanded in a whisper.

"An ally," answered a voice that was shockingly familiar.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Even in the relative darkness of the air shaft, Spider-Man could discern who the mysterious stranger was. The man crawled right up to the vent and positioned himself directly beneath Spider-Man. The light partially illuminated the crimson-clad warrior, particularly the holster on his right thigh. It held a pair of silver and red nunchakus. One of the sticks had dual emblems on its handle . . . an angel's face on one side, a devil's face on the other, just like . . . _Matt Murdock's cane . . . Oh, my God!_

The fluttering of Spider-Man's heartbeat warned Daredevil that his secret was out. "I see that you recognize me, Peter," Matt said softly, not wanting to take a chance on tipping off the enemy.

"Mr. Murdock!" Peter whispered, his eyes widening in shock beneath his mask. He half-expected it, but was still dumbfounded nonetheless. _Now I know how Mary Jane must have felt when she saw me without my mask on_, he thought excitedly as his mind raced to process this latest challenge to reality."But you're . . .you're . . ." He couldn't quite get the last word out.

"Blind?"

"Well . . . uh . . . now that you mention it . . . yeah," Peter said, still not believing what he'd just learned about the blind lawyer from Hell's Kitchen.

"Some of us see the world a little differently than others," Matt replied quietly, clearly not offended. If the truth be told, even Matt himself would not have believed that a blind man could have such capabilities . . . if he were not that man. All the same, Peter felt a little embarrassed at the snap judgment he'd just made.

"But how did you find me?" Peter asked, his sense of stupefaction giving way to an overwhelming sense of relief that the cavalry had come over the hill just in the nick of time.

"Police radios are an excellent source of intelligence" Matt replied. "And _you_ did a terrific job in finding a way to get in here without setting off the alarms. By the way, feel free to call me Matt . . . except when we're in public." He thrust his hand up toward Peter. Peter shook it, feeling a powerful, vigorous grip.

Matt stuck his head close to the grating, trying gather as much information as possible. The radar-like images his brain was processing made the room appear to him as an enormous cavern that ran nearly the entire length and breadth of the facility. It was surrounded on all sides by alternating layers of lead and reinforced concrete. No doubt that it was a storage area for extremely large containers of nuclear waste and other hazmats. Even though the facility had been abandoned nearly ten years ago, Matt was still able to detect traces of radioactive isotopes flashing throughout the area.

Two significant obstacles hindered his ability to gather information on the terrorists themselves. The first was the enormous industrial lamp hanging directly in front of the grating. The second was Peter's heartbeat, which, in the confined space of the air shaft, assaulted his ears like a howitzer.

"They're going to destroy the subways using dirty bombs!" Peter whispered frantically. Matt could see that the young man was really overwhelmed. _He must be thinking that he's in over his head_, Matt thought dispassionately, wondering if Peter had ever faced this kind of uncertainty before. He knew immediately what he had to do first.

"Peter," he said slowly, wanting to make sure that he was understood. "Believe me, I'm fully aware of the gravity of this situation, but I really need you to calm down. Your heart's beating so loudly that I can barely hear anything else. I can't tell what's going on down there."

"What!" Peter responded, wired as ever. "My heartbeat . . . how could you possibly . . . ?"

"It would take too long to explain," Matt said, his voice as calm and smooth in the face of a massive terrorist operation as it had been in court earlier in the day. "For now, just trust me, please."

"I _do_ trust you," Peter replied earnestly. But he was baffled at what Matt was asking him to do. "I don't know how to gain control over my autonomic functions . . ."

"Just breathe deeply. . ." Matt told him, trying to be as reassuring as he could. "And while you're breathing deeply, focus on whatever it is that's most important to you."

_Well, since he put it that way, _Peter thought as he allowed his mind to drift back to the roof of the Met Life Building, where once again he found himself kissing Mary Jane upside down. He could smell her perfume, taste her delectable lips, and feel her delicate tongue sliding over his teeth. And as he envisioned himself in his beloved's arms once more, being consumed in the fires of their passion, his breathing grew slower and deeper, and the intensity of his heartbeat began to lessen.

"Much better," Matt said, after a minute or two. He seemed to be looking at Peter through the opaque eyepieces of his spider-mask and straight down into his soul. Even though Matt Murdock was still very much a stranger, Peter sensed some sort of bond forming between them. It was a different bond than the one he shared with M.J. It was more the sort of bond one might have with an older brother. He realized that, in the figurative sense, Matt Murdock was exactly that.

"Peter," Matt continued, turning up his empathy dial to maximum in order to make sure that Peter wouldn't start to panic again, "I realize how much stress you are under. I can feel it. But believe me, we can stop these bastards if we keep our heads and work together. All right?"

"Sure . . . absolutely," Peter whispered enthusiastically. He was more than happy to relinquish some of the burden and accept guidance from the older and presumably wiser man.

"I can pick up everything that is taking place in that room," Matt whispered as he stuck his head as close to the grating as possible. Peter watched as Matt gritted his teeth concentrating intently, struggling to separate vital data from background noise.

"There are one hundred and eighteen men down there," he said, straining to listen to myriad heartbeats and conversations taking place in multiple languages. He stopped his concentration long enough relay what he could learn to Peter.

"Variety of nationalities . . . mainly French, Italian, Spanish . . . and a few Germans."

"Any Arabs?" Peter asked anxiously.

"No one seems to be speaking Arabic." Matt responded as he continued to listen intently.

"But this is an Al Qaeda operation, I'm sure of it," Peter said, his anxiety starting to rise again. "One of the clowns who tried to take out Mr. Aziz was an Arab."

Matt reflected on this new wrinkle. "You're probably right. I'm sure that this is an Al Qaeda operation. But think about it for a moment. Since 9-11, the government has been using an elaborate profiling system to screen out potential terrorists, right?"

"Right," Peter answered, slowly beginning to understand where Matt was taking him.

"And, under that profiling system, who would most likely get screened out?"

"Arabs, Muslims, people from the Middle East."

"Exactly. So, if you're Al Qaeda, and you know that people who fit your profile are being denied entry into the United States, what would you do?"

"You'd recruit people who don't fit the profile!" Peter exclaimed. He was both amazed and frightened at Al Qaeda's sophistication, technical prowess, and broad appeal across nationalities."But who?"

"European Muslims, perhaps," Matt answered. "There are large Muslim communities in France, Italy, and other countries. Or maybe non-Muslim sympathizers. There are still plenty of extremists and fanatics out there." He paused, realizing that the terrorists were one step ahead of the authorities in getting around security barriers. "It doesn't matter," he finally said. "The only thing that matters is that they're here. And they're going to strike if we don't stop them."

"What about English?" Peter wanted to know. "Are any of them speaking English?"

Matt put his ear back up close to the grating and listened. "None that I've heard so far," he replied. "They must be concerned about security for this operation. We need to find out how may cells are involved."

_Finally, a question I can answer_, Peter thought as he breathed a small sigh of relief. "There are eighteen people who are the actual masterminds. The rest are there for logistics and support," he responded.

Matt did not have to ask Peter how he came upon this information. He already knew. "Can you see any of them?" he asked.

Peter tried to peer down through the grating, but because of the large ceiling light blocking their view, he could only see a small portion of the floor directly beneath them, and the far wall. "No," he said, "we'll have to get a closer look."

"I'm afraid we don't have time to find another way into that storage room," Matt concluded. "We'll have to get this grating off."

"No problem," Peter said eagerly, gripping one side of the grating between his fingers and getting ready to push. Like the grating outside, it was held in place with half-inch screws.

"Quietly," Matt warned.

"Right, boss!" Peter responded, his sense of humor starting to come back to him, as he pushed against the grating with his entire body to muffle the sound made by screws tearing loose from the wall. Once the grating was off, he gently set it down inside the air duct. Miraculously, no one below heard them.

"I'd like to get out there on that ceiling and do a little recon work." Peter told Matt.

"That would be most helpful, Peter," Matt assured him. "But just stay above those lights, where they won't see you."

"Right," Spider-Man said as he quietly slipped through the opening. He crawled around the ceiling, upside down, looking for a vantage point that would give him a commanding view of the entire facility. He couldn't find one, so he had to scout from several different locations. Fortunately, he was well camouflaged. The ceiling lights were so close together that he could move around above them without being seen from the floor. In addition, when he moved about on walls and ceilings, he did not have gravity to contend with, and consequently was able to proceed in complete silence. For good measure, there were four gigantic ceiling fans that drowned out any noise he might have made.

Spider-Man returned to the air shaft twenty minutes later. Like a scout briefing his superiors after a reconnaissance mission, Spider-Man gave Daredevil extremely detailed descriptions of what he'd observed.

"You were right, Matt," Peter whispered as massive amounts of adrenalin continued to pump through his body. "I counted one hundred and eighteen . . ." But suddenly Matt winced, putting his hands to his ears in obvious pain.

"Hey, what is it?" Peter asked in an agitated whisper, his spider-sense reacting to Matt's distress.

"You're getting wired again, Peter," Matt admonished sternly through short gasps. "Your heart is pounding so loud it's drilling my ears. Please, get hold of yourself!"

"Oh, man, I'm sorry," Peter apologized as he struggled to keep the what-if scenarios from invading his mind.

Seeing that the enormous stress that Peter was under was beginning to take its toll, Matt decided to try a different tack. Totally out of the blue, he said to Peter, "She's really something special, isn't she?"

The left-field nature of the question caught Peter off guard. "Who?" he asked, momentarily disoriented.

"Your girlfriend," Matt answered softly.

"Oh yes, she is," Peter replied, his heart rate slowing down and becoming softer even as he pictured Mary Jane framed in the doorway of her apartment, beckoning him inside, waiting for him to make love to her. . .

"You'll see her again, Peter, I guarantee it!" Matt promised as if he had all the confidence in the world.

Grateful that his senior partner could figure out the right buttons to push, and a little embarrassed that he, a super-hero, needed reassurances, Peter continued with his recon report.

"None of them look like they're from the Middle East. As you said earlier, they're all talking in French, Italian, Spanish, and a few other languages I didn't recognize. As far as I can tell, none of them know we're here."

Matt already knew that they had weapons, but was not sure what type. "What are they armed with?"

"AK-47's" Peter told Matt grimly. In his two years as Spider-Man, he'd seen that weapon so often that he could recognize it instantly, even from a distance.

"What are they wearing?" Matt asked, the courtroom lawyer in him once again coming to the fore.

"Most are dressed like subway maintenance workers. The rest are wearing security guard uniforms." Peter responded, very much falling in line with Matt's analytical approach to their current situation.

"What's the layout of the place?" Matt asked, continuing his line of questioning about the logistics of the operation. "Could you see any entrances or exits?"

"Two doors," Peter reported. "One on the South side, one on the East. There's also a very large garage door directly beneath us, about three stories high. But it doesn't look like they're using it."

Matt stuck his head out of the opening and went into a deep state of concentration. The beads of sweat breaking out around his nose, chin, and mouth spoke volumes to Peter about how hard it was for Matt to isolate particular sounds and smells, even with his enhanced senses. After what seemed to be an eternity, Matt suddenly snapped out of it and retreated into the air duct.

"The South door opens directly to the main access corridor," Matt explained to his eager young co-crusader. "The East door leads to an auxiliary storage room, which is also surrounded by walls made of lead and reinforced concrete. I count six devices in that room, all lined up on a work bench." He paused and cocked his head slightly to the left. "Ordinary C-4 plastic explosive, with charges set to detonate via electrical impulse. Each device has approximately one hundred grams of cesium 127 dispersed throughout the explosive material.

Peter was too preoccupied with making his next point to show any of his amazement at Matt's uncanny precision in pinpointing the location and composition of the bombs.

"But we _still_ don't know where they plan to set those bombs off, or how many they're going to use." Peter hissed, his frustrations building again.

Matt remained unflappable even as precious minutes were ticking away. "Chill out Peter," he reminded his colleague in a firm but gentle whisper. "Did you see any maps, drawings, diagrams, anything of that nature?"

Peter suddenly remembered the whiteboard. "I saw a rough diagram of what looked like lower Manhattan with a bunch of _X_'s drawn all over it. But I couldn't get close enough to get a really good look at it."

"All right then," Matt said as he began formulating battle strategy. "We'll need to get down there and . . ." He suddenly stopped talking and stuck his head out of the opening again, this time in the direction of the south door. He was locking onto the sounds of two police cars pulling up to the main entrance of the warehouse. _Shouldn't there be more cops than this?_ he thought, his outer expression changing from relief to concern before Peter's eyes.

"What is it now?" Peter asked, becoming agitated again at seeing Matt's reaction.

"The police are here." Matt told him. "They wisely decided not to use their sirens."

"Well, that's good," Peter said, relieved that the police had taken his tip-off seriously. "How many?"

"Five," Matt responded. "No, wait a minute. . . four NYPD officers, and an FBI agent."

"_That's all? Only five!_" Peter was about to yell. He could not believe that, after everything he told those two cops, they'd sent in only five people. Fortunately, he remembered where he was and lowered his voice to a whisper . . . a harsh whisper. "Where the hell are their back ups? I told them to bring in a goddam army!" He knew right away that the cops were in deep, deep trouble. Without back ups, those five were as vastly outnumbered as Custer's army was at Little Big Horn.

"Peter, how many times do I have to tell you . . . _relax_!" Matt whispered angrily as he again stuck his head through the opening. "I guess it's up to us to even the odds," he told Peter firmly. "I'll need you to kill the lights."

For a second, Peter just looked at Matt, wondering why they needed to cut the lights and how he was supposed to do that. Somehow, Matt read his expression and had the answers waiting for him. "The cops are outnumbered, and heavily outgunned," he explained, gesturing in the direction of the approaching police. "They don't stand a chance unless we can take these guys out fast. The only way we can do that is if we take control of the environment. Are you with me?"

"Yes," Peter acknowledged.

"There's a large fuse box on the ceiling, in the dead center of the room. The cables from all the lights feed directly into it. Did you see it when you were out there?"

"I saw a large metal box attached to the ceiling, behind the lights," Peter confirmed.

"That's it. I'll need you to yank those cables out of that box. We'll be in control once the lights are gone."

"But how can we see what's going on without the lights?" Peter asked incredulously.

"I _own_ the dark!" Matt responded in a low but decisive tone that struck Peter as reassuring and ominous at the same time. "And you seem to have acquired an insect's knack for moving around in dark places."

"Arachnid," Peter corrected him.

"What?" Matt asked, completely baffled by Peter's remark.

"Spiders are not insects. They're arachnids. Thought you lawyers knew that," he joked, somewhat flippantly, causing Matt to raise his eyebrows.

_So, that's where he gets his wise-guy rep_, Matt mused as he watched Peter move back toward the vent and get ready to assault the fuse box. "Once you're in position, wait for my signal before you pull the plug." he told Peter. Then, in a surprise gesture of big-brotherly affection, he put his hand on the younger man's shoulder.

"Are you okay?" he asked, a seemingly genuine concern for Peter's welfare plainly evident in his voice.

"Yeah," Peter said confidently, a smile breaking out beneath his mask as his pessimism evaporated in the face of imminent action. "Let's get out there and unleash hell on those bastards!"

_At least the lad's enthusiastic_, Matt thought, tempering his initial judgment of his junior partner, _and respectful of his elders_. _I wonder, though, is he always this cheerful before a fight_?


	12. Lucifer & Mephisto

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Note**

_**Just as every cop is a criminal  
**__**And all the sinners saints  
**__**As heads is tails  
**__**Just call me Lucifer,  
**_'_**Cause I'm in need of some restraint  
**__**So if you meet me  
**__**Have some courtesy  
**__**Have some sympathy, and some taste  
**__**Use all your well-learned politesse  
**__**Or I'll lay your soul to waste**_

**_Sympathy for the Devil_, © 1968 by Mick Jagger & Keith Richards.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XII**

**LUCIFER & MEPHISTO**

Swiftly and silently, Spider-Man slipped out of the air duct and scuttled across the ceiling, hidden from view below by the big halogen lights.Crawling upside down, he followed the cables that snaked between the support beams until they merged into the trunk cable that fed directly into the massive fuse box. At the connection point he planted his feet firmly against the side of the box, grasped the cable, and looked over his shoulder to Daredevil, who gave the go-ahead by simply nodding his head. "Nighty-night, boys!"Spider-Man whispered sarcastically as he ripped the wires loose, causing sparks to erupt from the now-ruined fuse box and plunging the entire room into darkness. With that one decisive stroke, he and Daredevil took complete control of the battlefield.

Daredevil leaped off the lamp in front of the air duct, did a triple somersault and landed in the middle of the room. Spider-Man landed right beside him after dropping straight down from the destroyed fuse box overhead. Daredevil's radar-like senses gave him a 360 degree view of everything around him, alerting him to threats from any direction. And although Spider-Man lacked Daredevil's sensory capabilities, his own _extra_sensory perception achieved a remarkably similar effect. The terrorists, thinking that the fuse box had blown by itself, were caught completely by surprise. They were totally unprepared for the human tornadoes that suddenly struck without warning.

All hell broke loose as Spider-Man and Daredevil dealt out punishing blows with their fists, elbows, knees, feet, webs, and nunchakus. They were becoming a unified, ferocious, and incredibly powerful fighting force, with each man acting in complete concert with the other. It was as though the terrorists were being attacked from fifteen different directions at once.

As he had done so many times before, Daredevil overpowered his hapless opponents with a unique martial style that fused ancient oriental techniques with his own immeasurable skills as a street fighter. In the dark, he was devastating and unstoppable, a one-man Roman legion. Those who'd somehow managed to stay clear of his hands and feet found themselves being attacked with a deadly combination of poles, billy clubs, and nunchucks, all of which were really the same instrument. He could hear bones cracking under the impact of his blows as they struck home.

Spider-Man too found himself thriving in the darkness. Thanks to the high-speed nerve conduction velocities that powered his spider-sense, he knew precisely where the enemy was and when to fire his webs. Playing off Daredevil, he utilized a combination of nets and balls to neutralize those who'd somehow managed to avoid being hit by the scarlet-clad human buzz saw.

Spider-Man was in the process of webbing seven men to a wall when, suddenly, his spider-sense warned him that someone was about to fire a machine gun, and that Daredevil was in the probable line of fire. _The goon has no idea where he's aiming_, Spider-Man thought as he pivoted around to lock in on his new target. And before the determined combatant could pull the trigger, he heard a _thwippp_, and felt a hard rubber ball strike him in the back, knocking him off his feet and driving him down into the concrete floor, chin first. An instant later, he heard a second _thwippp_, and found himself pinned to the floor by some kind of netting made of extremely fine but unbreakable threads. And then, the jihadist's eyes widened with terror at the crunching sound of his machine gun being broken in two . . . by someone . . . or something . . . with incredible strength.

As the battle raged around them, four terrorists, whose survival instincts had not yet been dulled by a desire for martyrdom, retreated to the South wall. They had no intention of ending up as cannon fodder for this terrible new weapon that the Great Satan had deployed against them. They were groping anxiously along the wall, desperate to find the nearest exit and get out with their lives. One by one, they made their way toward the tiny sliver of light that marked the South door.

All of a sudden, Peter's spider-sense flared. At the same time, Matt glanced toward the South door, hearing voices, a police dispatch radio, and guns being drawn from holsters. In the heat of battle, the cowled warriors had forgotten about the approaching cops. There was no time to warn them.

The South door burst open.

"Freeze!" Officer Joe Santelle shouted, his service revolver drawn. Behind him, Officer Paul Davis also drew his gun, as did, Detective Jared Korso, Detective Doris Grissom, and F.B.I. Agent Harry Somes.

But the terrorists did not freeze. Caught between the police and whatever supernatural force had destroyed their operation, they started shooting wildly into the frame of light that enveloped the cops. Two police officers went down, hit by fire from AK-47s. The others tried to get their wounded colleagues to safety. Unfortunately, the corridor offered few places of refuge and the back ups that Spider-Man had explicitly requested hadn't arrived.

Spider-Man reacted as fast as he could to the unfolding ambush. But because he'd been protecting Daredevil's flank, he had waited a fraction of a second too long before responding to the message his spider-sense was giving him. Although he had done the best he could under the circumstances, the staccato eruption of machine gun fire meant that he was already too late to avert a tragedy.

Spider-Man leaped through the door and attacked all four fleeing terrorists from behind, knocking them into each other and ensnaring them with a web net. Then he rushed over to one of the injured policemen. It was Officer Santelle. He was lying on the floor, clutching his side, his face contorted in agony. Blood was seeping from between his fingers. A female detective was holding his hand, murmuring indistinct words of encouragement in order to keep him from slipping into a coma.

"Here, let me take a look," Spider-Man said in a comforting tone. When Detective Grissom gave him a worried look he reassured her. "Don't worry ma'am, I'm certified in first aid and CPR." He glanced down at the area where the blood was coming from, gently unbuttoning Officer Santelle's s uniform shirt and folding it over. The bullet had struck Santelle in the side, below the rib cage, and had exited through his stomach. He was bleeding profusely from an exit wound that disclosed significant arterial damage. Spider-Man realized that he had to move fast if this officer was going to see the sun go down.

"It's okay," he said softly, looking into the young policeman's eyes, and seeing how scared he was. "You're gonna be fine son, I promise." Peter felt funny calling a man barely older than himself "son." But it was necessary, for the sake of appearances, and to reassure the terrified officer that he really was going to be all right. Using his webbing as a bandage,Spider-Man successfully staunched the flow of blood from Santelle's wounds. He just prayed that his makeshift arterial sutures were good enough to prevent substantial blood loss.

Suddenly, Santelle tried to speak. Spider-Man and Detective Grissom bent closer. "Par . . . par . . . part . . .ner!" Santelle gasped weakly, struggling to get one word out.

Spider-Man quickly understood what Santelle was trying to say. _His partner! He's asking about his partner._He got up to look around for Officer Davis when suddenly he found himself stepping into a puddle. He cringed when he looked down and saw his boots drenched in blood . . . and gasped in horror when he saw Officer Davis lying against the wall. The police veteran's head was twisted around at a grotesquely unnatural angle, and blood was gushing like a waterfall from a gaping wound just beneath his left ear. Davis's pupils had rolled up inside his head, leaving his eyes completely blank, an unmistakable sign that the kindly police officer had already departed the world.

A wave of nausea slammed into Spider-Man, nearly causing him to vomit inside his mask. He'd had the same reaction when he saw Rosie Octavius cut down by shards of glass at Otto's ill-fated demonstration for _Oscorp_. But this scene was far, far more gruesome. Recovering, Spider-Man hurried over to Davis's body, hoping against hope that it was not too late. Another cop was already there. This officer, obviously a detective, sported a pencil-thin mustache and was dressed in civilian clothes. His badge identified him as Korso. He got up when he saw Spider-Man approach the mutilated corpse.

"Is he . . .?" Spider-Man gasped in disbelief.

Korso nodded sadly. "He was beyond help as soon as he hit the floor."

Spider-Man just stood there, numb with shock and grief at the magnitude of the cosmic cruelty that had just been played out. _Why did it have to be him?_ Spider-Man cried out in silent anguish. _He was the only cop on the entire NYPD who ever showed me an ounce of respect! HE HAD ONLY TWO WEEKS LEFT, DAMMIT! _

_Why did it have to be me?_ came his uncle Ben's soft, gentle voice, waxing philosophical. _Life's that way sometimes, Michelangelo. Now get your ass back in there and finish your job before there are any more casualties._ And then, before Peter even had a chance to reply, Ben was gone. But the daydreamed visit had served its purpose, reminding Peter that nothing further could be done for Officer Davis and returning Peter's focus to the task of preventing a far greater loss of life.

Spider-Man hurried back to the main storage area. The massive room was still dark, save for the area in the vicinity of the still-open South door. From what little he was able to see of his and Daredevil's handiwork, he got the distinct impression that he was in the middle of a war zone.

"Hey!" he called out, looking for Daredevil.

"Over here!" came Daredevil's voice from a few yards in front of the door in the East wall. As Spider-Man made his way over to where Daredevil was standing, his eyes caught a reflection from a small, shiny, cylindrical object lying on the floor. It was the billy club with angel-devil emblems on the handle.

As he picked up the club, Peter suddenly decided that he wanted to test the limits of his new partner's reflexes.

"Yo, Satan!" Peter yelled, throwing the club in Matt's general direction. "Wouldn't want to lose this now, would we?"

"Lucifer," Matt responded as he caught the club without missing a beat.

"What!" Peter exclaimed even as marveled at his blind counterpart's tremendous athletic prowess.

"I prefer to be called Lucifer . . . because I'm in need of some restraint."

"Obviously," Peter said, mindful of the carnage all around him and wondering what the punch line was.

Noting Peter's confusion, Matt added, "_Sympathy for the Devil_, Rolling Stones . . . way before your time, Peter."

"Oh yeah . . .I know that song, Gramps," Peter quipped, "I listen to the classical music station all the time!"

Matt suddenly cocked his head, picking up the siren of an ambulance approaching the building. "How's the cop?" he asked Peter.

"I think he'll make it," Peter responded, acutely aware that Matt had asked about _only one_ police officer. All at once, his spider-sense kicked in, pointing to a dangerous situation developing inside the storage annex behind the East wall.

"What's going on here?"

"We've got problems," Matt explained as he and Peter rushed over to the East door. "One of those guys decided that he wants to be a martyr and take us with him. He locked himself in that annex and activated the bombs."

"Is he armed?" Peter asked, shocked at this sudden turn of events.

"To the teeth," Matt replied, "AK-47, forty-four magnum, and a five-inch switchblade."

"Sound's like that guy's ready to party," Peter joked.

Matt grimaced at the wisecrack. He did not appreciate Peter's flippancy at such a crisis moment. But he held his tongue in order not to create unnecessary friction between himself and the webslinger. He returned to probing the East door, a monstrous slab of metal that looked like it had been taken from Fort Knox. Matt moved his hands up and down along its surface. "Extremely low carbon, high tensile steel," he said. "There's a lead core as well."

_Obviously, since they used to store radioactive waste in this dump,_ Peter thought, a little sardonically. "How much time?" he asked, trying very hard keep his heartbeat under control and not annoy his partner.

"No way to tell unless we see the bombs," Matt answered. "Unfortunately, this door's eighteen inches thick — think you could breach it?"

"No problem, Lucifer." Peter quipped as he stepped up to the door and hammered both his fists against it with every ounce of strength he had. There was a loud, deafening crash, followed by a thunderous echo that reverberated across the room. Those sounds were caused by steel reinforcements breaking away from the joints that held them.

As Peter continued to pound away at the massive steel door, he imagined himself as King Kong busting through the huge wall that separated the gigantic ape from his worshiping minions. Under the relentless rain of blows, each delivered with an impact pressure of twenty two tons per square inch, the massive steel door groaned and creaked before it finally gave way and fell backwards into the annex with a resounding clang.

The wannabe martyr inside the dimly lit auxiliary storage room, already terrified by the deafening noise, froze at the sight of the two apparitions advancing on him. Before he could even reach for his weapons, he found himself being swept off his feet, driven violently backward, and pinned to the far wall with some kind of netting that was thin as thread, but stronger than an anchor chain.

Their own security established, Peter and Matt sprang into the annex, where the arduous task of deactivating the bombs awaited them. Six of the devices were lined up neatly on a workbench.

"These are unbelievably simple." Matt explained as examined one of the bombs, gently picking it up and showing it to Peter. "There's a pulse detonator with a built-in timer that's wired into C-4 plastic explosives mixed with cesium. See how the C-4's wrapped around the detonator?"

"Yes," Peter answered. To him, the explosive compound looked like ordinary modeling clay. Matt, however, perceived it as a shadowy substance that emitted showers of tiny sparks . . . clusters of cesium particles that were invisible to the human eye. _They probably bought the parts from Radio Shack_, Matt thought, marveling at the terrorists' ingenuity. "This particular variation of C-4 is extremely concentrated, and can do a lot of damage very quickly," he continued. "And between all six bombs, there's enough fire power to take out this building."

"And irradiate half of lower Manhattan!" Peter said anxiously. As a science major, he knew a great deal about the destructive properties of the materials used to make dirty bombs.

"True," responded Matt, impressed at Peter's scientific acumen. "What do the timers say?"

Peter glanced quickly at all the bombs. The timers were all synchronized and moving backwards. "Four minutes and counting," he reported apprehensively.

"More than enough time," Matt reassured his younger partner. "You should see two wires running between the detonator and the explosive."

"I do."

"One wire transmits the electrical pulse from the detonator," Matt explained. "The other's a dud, put in there to confuse anyone who tries to disable the bomb."

"And you can figure out if a wire is live just by touching it?" Peter asked in amazement.

"It's my gift." Matt replied nonchalantly, "trust me."

"I do," Peter assured him.

"Okay, now listen carefully," Matt instructed. "It'll take soft hands with a very delicate touch to diffuse these things. You've got that touch. I don't."

"I do?" Peter asked hesitatingly, hoping his partner's faith wasn't misplaced.

"Yes, you do,"Matt assured him, "I've seen your reflexes. You'll have no problem." He continued his lesson on Bomb Disposal 101. "Now . . . if you pull the wrong wire, it'll set off the charge. Do exactly what I tell you . . ." He paused, picking up a slight acceleration in Peter's heart rate. "And above all, don't panic!"

"I won't panic!" Peter snapped. _Damn_ he thought, _can this guy read minds too? No, not minds . . . hearts_.

Matt gently put his hands on the wires, as if probing them. "Alright, this is the live one," he said, pointing to the wire on the left. It was fairly easy. Matt perceived the live wire flashing like a neon sign while thedecoy remained dark.

Peter grasped the wire and was about to pull it when Matt suddenly stopped him. "Wait a second," he warned. "Don't just yank it out. It'll blow if you do it wrong."

"But C-4 is stable," Peter protested, recalling something he picked up in an advanced chemistry class he'd taken at Midtown. "It won't explode it unless you put an electrical charge through it first."

"And that's exactly the point," Matt said as he continued to pick up sensory impressions from the bomb in his hand. "Whoever built these things somehow rigged them to go off if you pull the live wire directly out of the C-4 or the timer."

"What the hell should we do then, bite it?" Peter demanded anxiously, realizing anew that the people who made these devices were not amateurs.

"Close," Matt answered calmly. " Grasp the wire very gently with both hands, like this." He made a circle out of his thumb and forefinger to demonstrate. "Good. That's it . . . On my mark, pull the wire apart, just like you're snapping a piece of thread. Three . . . two . . . one . . . now!" There was a tiny pop, perceptible only to Daredevil, as the wire snapped cleanly. The bomb was dead.

"Good," Matt said. "Now, let's do the same with the others." They moved rapidly down the line of remaining devices, finishing the last one with ten seconds to spare. Peter breathed a huge sigh of relief, grateful to have Matt Murdock by his side in such a precarious situation.

But their respite would be short-lived. "The dope we got indicated that they were going to plant these things in the subways," Peter reminded Matt. "And we still don't know which stations!"

"Let's ask our friend over here." Matt said, an ominous undertone creeping into his voice.

Spider-Man and Daredevil walked right up to the man webbed to the wall. Unlike the two terrorists who'd tried to murder Rahi Aziz, this one made no effort to hide his fright.

"Please allow us to introduce ourselves," Spider-Man said wickedly, not hesitating to exploit the jihadist's fear. "I'm Mephisto and this is Lucifer." He gestured at Daredevil, who fell right into step and picked up his cue.

"It won't be seventy virgins you meet when you cross the threshold of martyrdom. It'll just be us!" Daredevil threatened as he bared his teeth, grinning like a ravenous wolf. "So, if you don't want to spend eternity in our company, I suggest that you answer the questions we put to you. First of all, do you speak English?"

"Yes," the man responded, angry and ashamed at how easily he'd been broken by these creatures from Hell.

Daredevil got right to it. "Did you place any of these bombs in a subway station?" he asked harshly, ready to inflict severe pain if the man didn't give him the answers he was looking for.

"I placed one," the man answered.

"Where?"

"City Hall."

"What about the others?" Daredevil barked.

"I don't know" the frightened terrorist replied, "I wasn't privy to that information."

Daredevil stepped away from the man and turned back toward his colleague. "I believe him." Matt said quietly.

Peter was incredulous. _How could this turkey not know what was going down?_ "Are you sure that lie detector of yours didn't get turned off by mistake?"

"Yes. His heartbeat didn't spike. In case you've forgotten, this is what I do for a living." Matt paused, and then added, "By the way, I've only missed once, and that was because the witness was wearing a pacemaker."

"That's all well and good boss, but meanwhile, we still don't know where or when," Spider-Man pointed out, his anxiety level rising again. But before Daredevil could answer, their attention was suddenly diverted by an army of police in S.W.A.T. uniforms who'd come bursting through the South door wearing bullet-proof vests and sporting 9-millimeter MP5 carbines. They were led by a plainclothes police officer, a balding, middle-aged detective with a thoroughly take-charge attitude.

One of the S.W.A.T. officers turned on the emergency power switch, and the main storage room was bathed in a dim, reddish light that was enough to illuminate the carnage left over from what had turned out to be a notoriously one-sided battle. They were shocked and awed by what they saw. Over one hundred men were either prone on the floor or pinned against the wall. They were covered with sticky but powerfully adhesive strands of goo. Many of them were bruised and bleeding. Many had broken bones. Some would require reconstructive plastic surgery. Whoever had done this had managed to reduce an entire battalion of the world's most dangerous people practically to pulp.

Daredevil and Spider-Man stepped through the East door and went back out into the main storage room to meet the police. As soon as the S.W.A.T. officers saw Spider-Man, they raised their weapons, but the detective in charge of the operation barked out, "Stand down!"

The detective addressed Spider-Man, having noticed him first. "Detective Captain Nick Manolis, 17th Precinct," he said, flashing his badge. He stopped and gaped when he saw the other costumed figure. For the first time in his life Detective Manolis had actually seen Daredevil face-to-face. Sure, he had been at the 58th Street subway stop watching Jose Quesada being carried away in two pieces. After he'd gotten through telling Ben Urich for the hundredth time that there was no Daredevil, the streetwise reporter had calmly flipped his still-lit cigarette onto a streak of lighter fluid, revealing the crimson warrior's mysterious interlocking "D-D" logo. And he was at the Church of the Holy Innocents when that bald Irish psycho with a dartboard cut into his forehead smashed through the church's stained-glass window and landed on top of a squad car. But even then there had been no solid evidence . . . no reliable proof of the "guardian devil's" existence. . . until today. _So it's true!_ Manolis thought grimly._ That son-of-a-bitch Urich was right all along. . . There really are two costumed freaks running around loose in this city . . . God save us all_!

"From the looks of things in here, it seems like you guys beat us to the punch," Manolis said slowly as he gathered his wits, still in shock over the way that only two men could have effortlessly manhandled over one hundred heavily armed terrorists.

If it was a compliment, Spider-Man did not acknowledge it. He was still upset about the officers who had been struck down.

"How's Officer Santelle?" Spider-Man asked Manolis. The veteran detective was surprised and touched that the webslinger seemed genuinely concerned about a wounded cop.

"I just got word that he's on his way to Mt. Sinai Hospital. Looks like he's gonna pull through. You know, he might have bled to death if it weren't for you. . . . He's just a rookie.Graduated from the police academy last Spring. Has a wife and a four-year old daughter. He owes his life to you."

Peter felt grateful tears stinging his eyes. It was a vindication from the police that was a long time in coming. But it was tragically bittersweet. "I'm so sorry about Officer Davis," Spider-Man murmured, his tears for the fallen officer who'd treated him which such kindness and respect beginning to blur the insides of his eyepieces.

"Thanks," Manolis responded. He too was struggling to hold back tears. He and Davis had been close friends for over thirty years. "We were going to treat him to dinner at _Sardi's _next Friday . . . in honor of his retirement," he said, his voice breaking.

"I hope you put those sons of bitches away for a long, long time," Spider-Man said, barely above a whisper.

"Not a chance," Manolis replied as he regained his composure. "There probably won't even be a trial. My guess is they'll be turned over to the army as enemy combatants and sent to Guantanamo Bay, where they'll be held indefinitely. It'll be years before the feds tell us anything we need to know to beef up security around here. That's the standard operating procedure these days." He shook his head sadly, resigned to the harsh realities of the Patriot Act, with its glaring lack of support for first-responders like himself.

"Excuse me, sir," said a S.W.A.T. team member as he handed Manolis a marked-up brochure. It was a map of the New York City subway system. "We interrogated two of those guys, and took this off one of them." Manolis opened the brochure and started scrutinizing it very closely. There were ten subway stops circled in red. All of them were strategically dispersed throughout midtown and downtown. They included, among others, Wall Street and the Financial District; City Hall, Grand Central Station, and the Port Authority. Someone had scrawled_ 6:15 PM_ in pencil across the top of the map.

"They planted ten of these bombs late last night, right under the noses of subway security," the S.W.A.T. officer continued, clearly convinced that he'd heard the truth. "Apparently, they went in disguised as maintenance workers, so nobody gave them a second look. The bombs are rigged to go off at 6:15, tonight, simultaneously, during the height of rush hour."

"Are you sure these guys weren't lying?" Manolis asked, suspiciously.

Spider-Man heard that exchange. He'd been studying the whiteboard he'd spotted from the ceiling earlier. "Let's have a look at that," he called out to Manolis. When the detective handed him the map, he held it up next to the diagram on the board. The two were roughly congruent.

"Looks like a match," Spider-Man reported to Daredevil as he returned the map to Manolis.

"All right," the police captain barked out his orders as he gave the map back to the S.W.A.T. officer. "Get this to our bomb disposal teams and tell them to move in fast! How long do we have?"

The S.W.A.T. officer looked at his watch. "A little over two hours." He looked back at his superior, terrified. "Sir," he said in a subdued voice, "there's no way we can do this. Even if we could get a team to every station at the same time. we wouldn't know where to begin looking for these things."

"Well, what do you suggest?" a frustrated Manolis snapped at the officer.

"We could do it," interrupted Daredevil.

"What?" Manolis shouted, flabbergasted at the notion of having to outsource a vital police function to a pair of lunatic vigilantes. He could see himself being dragged through an Internal Affairs inquiry and relieved of post in disgrace, his name plastered all over the front page of the _Daily Bugle._ But on the other hand, he realized that if his own people couldn't do it, he'd have no other option. A large-scale radiological attack would reduce much of Manhattan to rubble and cripple the subways. Hundreds would die from the blasts, while thousands more would perish from radiation sickness. On top of all that, the destruction of the Financial District would set off a worldwide panic, bringing the global economy to its knees in a single stroke. And the blame for that disaster would be laid squarely at his feet.

The answers were not coming very easily to Manolis. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead as he agonized over the decision he had to make. He looked at Spider-Man, and then at Daredevil, straight into the blinds that covered the crimson-clad warrior's sightless eyes. "Can you guys understand the position I'm in?" he pleaded.

"We do," Daredevil said, exuding calm and confidence. "And let me assure you, Captain, that we can reach those bombs and deactivate them a lot faster than your people can." Spider-Man nodded in agreement, even as his own heartbeat went off the scale.

"All right!" Manolis snapped, the gravity of his predicament visible on his face. "Get going!" He turned to the S.W.A.T. officer. "Get those subways evacuated, _now_!" he shouted.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Leaving _Oscorp_'s nuclear storage facility behind them, the twin demons swung rapidly through lower Manhattan. They had less than two hours to clear away radiological devices at ten subway stops spread out across the city. From overhead, they observed a massive but orderly evacuation from the subways.

Spider-Man arced between buildings at speeds approaching two hundred and forty miles an hour, faster than he'd ever flown before. Though tightly wound, he forced himself to focus completely on one thing and one thing only. . . keeping those bombs from exploding. He also felt enormously relieved, now that he and Daredevil finally knew where to look for the bombs. The map was safely tucked inside his tights, but it scratched his stomach every time he fired a webline. He cursed himself for not thinking of putting pockets in his costume.

Like Spider-Man, Daredevil could navigate comfortably between skyscrapers. He kept himself aloft by using his grappling hook. Its cord was made of a thin but high-tensile material that could best be described as woven steel. It could extend to a length of more than one hundred feet. His muscular two hundred pounds was a considerable mass, but one which could move at an enormous speed when accelerated, making it quite easy for him to keep up with Spider-Man. Moreover, Daredevil did not limit himself to the use of his grappling hook to get around. He leaped from building to building, routinely engaging in three-hundred-foot free-falls, somersaults, and hurdles. Those moves would have easily qualified him for an all-world gymnastics team.

There were two stops near Wall Street. They would handle these first. Daredevil knew exactly what he was looking for. The sounds and smells and images of the devices were etched into his memory. Once they got into a subway station, he would be able to lock in on the bomb, regardless of how well-hidden it might be.

They landed at the first stop, near the intersection of Pearl and Rector streets. Moving rapidly in tandem, they leaped over pedestrians near the subway entrance and hurried down the stairs, to the now-deserted platform. Daredevil stopped and cocked his head to one side, straining to hear the sound made by a pulsating digital timer, and to pick up the distinct aroma of C-4 mixed with cesium.

"There," Daredevil said, pointing toward the track. He ran forward and leaped off the edge of the platform, with Spider-Man following close behind. His hypersenses locked onto a small device, about half the size of an ordinary shoe box, resting between two railroad ties. Sure enough, the telltale sparks were shooting off the device like tiny meteors, giving the lethal object a phosphorescence that shone through the blue fog that perpetually surrounded him.

"There it is," he said to Spider-Man. "Do you see it?"

"Yeah." Spider-Man replied, squatting down for a closer look. The device had been placed within the shadow of the platform, making it difficult for him to see, but he was able to make out its essential features . . . a large lump of grey-colored plastic explosive wrapped around the time-delay detonator.

Daredevil picked up the bomb and set it down gently on the platform. He and Spider-Man examined it closely in the dim light. Its construction was identical to that of the bombs they diffused back at the warehouse.

"Okay, let's handle this the same way as we did before," Daredevil coached the webslinger. Spider-Man knew the drill by heart. He waited for Daredevil to identify the live wire, knowing that if he tried to deactivate the bomb himself, he would probably blow himself up and irradiate everything around him in the process. He daintily grasped the wire between his thumbs and forefingers and pulled them apart on Daredevil's mark. A nod from Daredevil told him that the device no longer posed a threat.

Spider-Man glanced up at a large digital wall clock. They had one hour and forty three minutes to diffuse nine more bombs scattered throughout the subway system.

Their next target was the stop near Broadway and Rector, followed by City Hall, the Brooklyn Bridge, Herald Square, and six other locations around downtown and midtown Manhattan. Daredevil had to hand it to the terrorists—they'd chosen their targets well. Together those locations represented critical junctures along the city's jugular vein. Cut that vein, and the city would bleed to death.

Fortunately though, the combination of Daredevil's ultra-acute sensitivities and Spider-Man's extraordinarily fine motor skills was proving to be uniquely suited to the challenge at hand. As they proceeded from station to station, they began to function as a single mechanism, just as they had during the battle at the warehouse. Each was learning to pick up on the other's subliminal cues. By the time they reached the last stop on their "itinerary," it was as if they were two seasoned brain surgeons who'd been working across the table from each other for years.

But time was growing short. Their final destination was the stop at 49th Street and 6th Avenue - Rockefeller Center. Spider-Man looked around for a clock and flinched when he saw the time: 6:11 . . ._less than four minutes!_ Even Daredevil started to get concerned that time would run out on them.

By now, the streets around the subway stops were totally cleared. The two warriors rushed down into the subway, with Daredevil struggling to detect the telltale electrical pulses thatwould give the bomb's location away.But this one was harder to locate, and Daredevil soon figured out why. It had been positioned dangerously close to the third rail, about thirty yards from the station. Both of them knew that the third rail carried the millions of volts of electricity needed to power the century-old subway system. Not only did the third rail's electrical field obscure the bomb's pulses, but anyone who got careless in trying to diffuse the bomb would be electrocuted. _Wow,_ thought Spider-Man as he observed the elaborate, dangerous set-up, _whoever placed this one really knew what he was doing_.

Daredevil approached the third rail slowly and carefully. It appeared to glow like a white-hot streak of lightning that simultaneously emerged from the blue fog and receded into it. He had to struggle to ascertain the precise location of the device. When he finally succeeded in isolating it, he stopped dead in his tracks.

_My God!_, he thought, finally feeling a tiny thrill of panic, _it's less than two millimeters from the hot rail!_ He started to reach in, very slowly, making absolutely sure that neither his hand nor the device made accidental contact with the third rail. His hand was about two inches away from the bomb, when he was startled by a sudden surge in Spider-Man's heartbeat that sounded to him like a thunderclap.

"Dammit Peter, you'll kill us both if you don't stay calm!" Daredevil whispered harshly, his anger masking his own anxieties. Spider-Man brushed it off quickly, having gotten used to the older man's difficult demands that he control his autonomic responses to external stimuli. _Christ, I'm only human,_ he griped silently, _and unlike you, hotshot, I'm very afraid!_ Ironically, he was beginning to hear hints in Daredevil's voice that the crimson crusader's armor was starting to crack. _Maybe he isn't completely without fear after all_, Spider-Man thought wryly.

After recovering his wits, Daredevil carefully lifted the device away from the hot rail's vicinity. He turned it over. To his dismay, he observed three wires running from the timer to the plastic explosive.

"Which one?" Spider-Man asked anxiously, knowing that they would have their answer in two minutes if they didn't pick one.

"I haven't figured that out yet, Peter," Daredevil answered as he heard his own heart beating slightly faster. With the other devices, it was easy to determine which wire to cut. But with this one, electricity seemed to be pulsing through all three, which meant that they could all be live. That made it all but impossible to know the right one.

_One Minute_. Spider-Man's internal clock had commenced the final count-down.

Daredevil was listening closely to the workings of the device, lightly caressing each wire with his left forefinger.

Spider-Man felt the world around him was slowing down, almost to a crawl.

_Forty seconds_.

Both of them perspired heavily under their masks. Daredevil couldn't quite nail down the direction of the electrical pulse. The frustration on his face was plainly evident to Peter.

_Twenty five seconds._

_Well at least I'll go out a hero_, Spider-Man thought sadly as his life started to flash before his eyes. Aunt May, Harry Osborn, Mary Jane, Jonah Jameson, Ben Urich, Foggy Nelson, and Rahi Aziz all paraded across his mind's eye. There was Flash Thompson about to take him out, and John Jameson about to take Mary Jane away from him. _Shouldn't Uncle Ben be picking me up in his Delta 88 about now?_

_Ten seconds_.

The scene suddenly changed. There he was, kissing a sleeping Mary Jane on her cheek ashe whispered, _"Arrivederci, Maria Giovanna"_ in her ear_. What a damn shame_, he thought mournfully, _losing M.J. just as I was getting my act together_. . .

_Five seconds . . . four . . . _

Daredevil pushed his senses to their absolute limit as he fought in vain to isolate the critical electrical circuit. Drops of sweat emerged from behind his cowl and trickled down his nose and cheeks. _I can't figure this goddamn thing out! . . . _

_Three . . . _

For Spider-Man, the world had come to a complete stop when . . . _"CUT ALL THREE!" Uncle Ben shouted through the open passenger door of the Delta 88 . . ._

_Two . . ._

In a high-speed trance, Spider-Man grasped all three wires firmly between his fingers.

_One . . ._

SNAP!

_Zero. . ._

Suddenly there was . . . nothing. No detonation, no explosion. Just a diffused radiological device in Daredevil's hand. . .

_Ben Parker flashed his nephew a smile and gave him a thumbs-up sign as he closed the door to the Delta 88 and drove off._

. . . And an enormous sigh of relief coming from Matthew Murdock, who was obviously grateful that his day of reckoning had been postponed yet again. "That was an incredibly gutsy call you just made, Peter!" he said, in awe of the young man's remarkable decision-making under such enormous pressure. "How did you know to cut all three?"

"It's my gift," Peter said, smiling as he used Matt's own words. "Trust me."

Spider-Man and Daredevil walked out of the subway station, each carrying an armful of disarmed devices. Spider-Man cocooned the bombs with his webbing and, with Daredevil's help, secured them to his back for the trip back to the warehouse, where they would be turned over to forensics specialists from the NYPD. He wished that he had his back pack, uncool as it may have looked.

There was a CVS Pharmacy across the street from the subway entrance. "Hey, wait a minute," Spider-Man said as he made his way to the drug store. "I need a pen."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Ben Urich arrived at the _Oscorp_ nuclear storage facility at the same time as the Special Weapons And Tactical units of the 17th, 18th, 19th, and 20th Precincts. Police barricades had all ready been set up around the entire two-block perimeter of the building. An ambulance was pulling away, and a stretcher bearing a body bag was being loaded into a second ambulance. Urich hurriedly parked his beat up Toyota Corolla along a side street, five blocks away. Stuffing as many quarters as he could find into the parking meter, he hustled to get to the heart of what would ultimately be the biggest international news story since 9-11.

Most of the S.W.A.T. teams were already inside the warehouse by the time he arrived at the main entrance. There was a large contingent of bomb disposal and forensic specialists filing in as well. _Ain't so deserted now_, he mused, wondering how many times he'd passed by this site while driving to work without ever noticing it.

Flashing his press pass at the barricaded entrance, Urich was ushered through the primary access corridor and into the main storage area. His eyes widened in disbelief when he saw the carnage strewn around the room. The groans coming from broken, bloodied bodies held in place by webbing told him that the police were not the ones who had broken up the terrorist operation. There were a few medical teams on hand, trying to administer treatment to the wounded jihadi even as they were still locked in place by Spider-Man's web nets. From having covered Spider-Man so many times, Urich knew that it would take a few hours for the webs to dissolve.

At the eastern end of the room, near what looked like door to another storage room, Detective Captain Nick Manolis was holding an impromptu news conference. Urich sauntered up to the roped-off area designated for the press. It reminded him of a cattle pen. He pulled out his recorder just as Manolis commenced with his prepared statement. Lights from the television crews shone directly into the irritated police captain's eyes while videocams panned around theroom, capturing the two heroes' work for worldwide broadcast.

"Today, at approximately 2:15 PM, officers of the 17th Precinct were notified that a significantly large hostile operation was being planned and carried out from this facility by operatives of the Al Qaeda network. From the evidence we've thus far been able to gather, it appears that their plan was to detonate radiological bombs at sixteen subway stations throughout Midtown and lower Manhattan. As you can see, however, their operation was never carried out."

Manolis anxiously drew a deep breath, knowing that what he was about to say next would anger a lot of people, including his superiors, the F.B.I., Homeland Security, and a certain prominent tabloid publisher. But it was the truth, and the evidence backing it up was overwhelming . . . and in plain sight all around the primary storage room.

"We believe that the suspects had been neutralized by the individuals known as 'Spider-Man' and 'Daredevil' prior to our arrival and intervention. Based upon the results of interrogations conducted by 17th Precinct personnel, we believe that the suspects had successfully placed said devices at ten of the sixteen subway stops. The devices were set to go off at 6:15 this evening, but since it is now . . ." He stopped and glanced briefly at his watch. . . . "7:03 and there have not been any reports of explosions, I think it is safe to conclude that Spider-Man and Daredevil were able to find all ten bombs and render them harmless. We'll have more information once our preliminary assessments and forensic analyses have been completed. Now, I'll take one or two questions. . . Mr. Urich."

No sooner had Ben start to ask his question when he was rudely interrupted by a shrill, whiney, nasal voice, the kind that sounded like fingernails scratching a black board. The questioner was Eddie Brock, the loudest and most obnoxious newspaper reporter in the Big Apple. Brock was a rising star in the _Daily Bugle's _firmament. As a reward for consistent, outstanding achievement in sucking up to his boss, he was awarded the crime beat, the job once held by Jolly Jonah himself. He was definitely cut from the same mold as Jameson, which meant that he was an all-around asshole.

Brock was not there to report the news . . . he was there to create it. His agenda, or rather, Jameson's, was to gather only those facts that could be spun in such a way as to implicate Spider-Man in the commission or abetting of a crime. Facts that could not be shoe-horned into the preconceived storyline were to be disregarded, disparaged, or ignored.

"So, Detective Manolis," Brock whined in a tone that smacked of obnoxious sarcasm, "are you saying that Spider-Man and . . . what's-his-name . . . unjustifiably interfered in an ongoing police investigation of a major terrorist operation?" Manolis rolled his eyes. _The ignoramus obviously doesn't even know who Daredevil is_, he thought contemptuously.

There were boos and catcalls coming from the representatives of other news organizations. All of them knew what Brock's game was, and none of them were as dull or as gullible as the _Daily Bugle_'s readership. As for Ben Urich, he was so furious that he wanted to turn around and jam his first down Jonah Junior's throat. He could not believe that the _Bugle_ would sink so low as to publicly insinuate that Spider-Man was in league with America's deadliest enemies. But, knowing Jonah as he did, he would not be surprised if that was indeed the case.

Fortunately, Captain Manolis was savvy enough with the media that he could avoid having to deal with Brock's question and its implications. "I believe that I'd called on Mr. Urich." he said abruptly, pointedly snubbing Brock and making everyone aware that he had done so.

"Thank you very much, Captain," Urich responded, very much determined to remain worthy of the veteran police officer's hard-won trust. "The alleged terrorists were utilizing property belonging to _Oscorp_ industries. In your view, does this imply that any of the suspects were _Oscorp_ employees, or otherwise had connections to the company?

"We're looking into that, but as far as we can tell, _Oscorp_ abandoned this facility a decade ago . . ." Before Manolis could finish his answer, there was a sharp whistle coming from somewhere above those huge halogen lights that blocked the ceiling from view. In the next instant, a strange object was being lowered from some kind of tether. From where he was standing, Urich at first thought it looked like a gigantic cocoon.

"That's all," Manolis said sharply to the reporters. "News briefing's over. No more questions until we've had a chance to look at whatever that is. So, everyone please clear out!" The reporters groaned in protest, and a few of them, including Eddie Brock, persisted in asking questions. They were sternly reminded by a S.W.A.T. officer that this was an ongoing investigation and the police were not at liberty to disclose any more details about their discovery. As the reporters filed out of the room, the S.W.A.T. officer discreetly tapped Urich on the shoulder. "The captain wants to see you, in private," the heavily armed officer said, careful to remain outside the earshot of the other reporters, especially Eddie Brock.

Manolis had an inkling of what was inside the cocoon. He wanted Urich on hand when they were positively identified. The reason he trusted Urich was a simple one — Urich was from the old school of journalism in the sense that he did not have any agenda other than accurate and fair reporting. That alone made him trustworthy in Manolis's estimation.

Manolis ordered one of the forensic specialists to retrieve the cocoon. Fastened to it was a yellow post-it note that read, _Compliments of Lucifer and Mephisto_.


	13. Alone Once More

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**The _Imperial_ refers to the _Imperial Theater_, located on West 45th Street in New York City.**

"**Sloan-Kettering," refers to the _Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center_, located on East 64th Street and other locations around New York City.**

"**Pat Hamilton" was a district attorney for the** **fictional Midwestern town of Salem on the soap opera _Days of Our Lives_. As portrayed so ably by actress Catherine MacNeal, Ms. Hamilton was an overzealous, single-minded prosecutor who often tried to win convictions at any cost. This character is so perfect for the role of the Manhattan DA that I just had to borrow her. She is copyrighted and trademarked by _Corday Productions, Inc._, all rights reserved. **

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XIII**

**ALONE ONCE MORE**

_Hey M.J. Sorry I had to bug out on you last night, but . . ._ Mary Jane didn't even bother to read the rest of Peter's note. She did not have to. She understood that he had compelling reasons for leaving. When she saw a crude, but accurate drawing of a tiger's paw print in lieu of a signature, she smiled, delighted that he acknowledged the pet name she'd given him. And finding his clothes neatly stacked on top of her dresser left no doubt in her mind that he'd be back.

Her spirits buoyed, she put the note down and was about to go back to sleep when her phone rang. "Hello," she answered, reasonably alert as a familiar name appeared on her caller ID.

"Mary Jane . . . terrific!" snapped Robin Kelly, her director from Earnest.

M.J. reflexively pulled her blanket all the way up to her chin. She felt strangely self-conscious, talking to her boss with no clothes on. "Hey Robin."

"I've got a problem ," Kelly said, sounding frazzled as usual. The lanky man, a dynamo of energy, was always so busy and harried that he tended to be somewhat peremptory with his cast members. "Harry Adler up at the _Imperial_ just cast Rebecca in Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. So now I don't have anyone to play Cecily. I saw the headlines about your wedding and had a hunch that you might be available."

"Aren't we lucky," Mary Jane replied. "I was about to call you about coming back this week." Like many people in show business, the perpetually overworked director had not been blessed with tact and sensitivity. But he was a shrewd judge of talent and a good teacher who'd given Mary Jane the break she needed when he cast her in the role of the protected but passionate Miss Cardew. And M.J. would never pass up an opportunity to show Mr. Kelly that his faith in her was justified.

"Well, that works out nicely then," he said dryly. "See you at six, tomorrow night. And don't be late!" He hung up the phone without so much as a "thank you." Mary Jane simply shrugged it off, happy to be getting back to the work she loved while her fiancé was out saving the city and preparing for his final exams.

Thinking that Peter would be tied up all day, M.J. decided to go for a walk around town. A long, leisurely stroll on a balmy Spring day was just what she needed to clear her head and reflect on where her life was going. The play was dark on Mondays, so she wouldn't have to rush back. She showered quickly, put on an old warm up suit and worn sneakers, and headed out to a nearby Starbuck's for a quick brunch. Her frumpy outfit and lack of make-up all but guaranteed that she would not attract any unwanted attention.

Sitting by herself at a window table with her frappuchino and croissant, Mary Jane recalled how, when she first awoke, that all-too-familiar feeling of being stood up set in when she tried to wrap her arms around Peter's warm, bare shoulders and found nothing but the mattress. That the space he'd once occupied was cool to the touch confirmed that he'd been out of bed for several hours. _You'd better get used to this girl_,_ because this is how it's going to be from now on, _her mind lectured sternly. _You think that with everything he's got on his plate, he's gonna have time for morning-after pillow talks or steamy hot showers together? You'll be lucky just to have dinner with him once a month. _

Maybe so, M.J. thought. But the heart-shaped diamond atop her engagement ring spoke volumes about the depth of Peter's love for her, a love so strong that it ripped away all of her pretenses and woke her up to the joy of her own soul. That awakening began when she first kissed Peter in the rain and culminated in the most spectacular lovemaking imaginable. So profound was her transformation that she no longer saw herself as the daughter of an alcoholic, an insecure party girl, a damsel in distress, or a veteran of superficial relationships. Those were nothing more than roles she'd once played, characters she'd once worn who were no more real than Cecily. And now they were gone, left behind on the other side of the divide that M.J. had crossed when she lovingly surrendered her virginity to Peter.

_Maria Giovanna. _Slowly, softly, Mary Jane repeated the name, savoring every syllable as if it were one of Aunt May's famous chocolate chip cookies. It sounded so incredibly beautiful and romantic when Peter whispered it to her. But to M.J., it was more than just a pet name from her lover. It captured the very essence of who she was: a beautiful, wise, and compassionate young woman who would give her man the refuge he so badly needed and would help him get rid of his demons. And if cryptic messages and an empty bed were the price to pay for having him in her life, so be it. Her determination on that score was as solid as the bedrock underneath Manhattan.

Feeling satisfied after her light bite, Mary Jane continued on her way, meandering through Greenwich Village, Chinatown, Little Italy, and the Financial District. As she passed a construction site, she saw a bunch of her _Emma Rose_ ads plastered all over the plywood safety barrier. Instinctively, she lowered her head and picked up the pace. As nice as it was to have her face so prominently displayed around the city, the last thing she wanted was to be recognized by someone who could connect her to Spider-Man. She wondered if Peter's near-reflexive desire for anonymity was starting to rub off on her. That might be a problem, she thought, given the profession that she was in.

By late afternoon, M.J. had made it all the way down to the Battery, the southernmost point in Manhattan. Walking along the waterfront, she passed by hundreds of tourists standing in line, waiting patiently to catch the last boats out to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. She had worked up a healthy sweat, but in deference to her tired feet, she decided to take the subway home. She made her way over to the Whitehall Street station, but found it deserted, even though it was well into rush hour.

She soon found out why. A big, mean-looking transit police officer was blocking the entrance, shooing people away as they approached. When the officer saw her coming, he called out brusquely, "Turn around now, please. The subways are closed until further notice."

That was not enough for Mary Jane. "What's wrong?" she asked as she continued to walk toward the officer. Having stared death in the face five times, she was not easily intimidated.

"Lady, I really don't know," the officer responded abruptly. "We were just told to get everyone out as fast as possible and not to let anyone back in." Mary Jane guessed from his tight-lipped expression that he did know but was not at liberty to say. However, he did manage to soften that expression a bit for the stunning redhead who had the audacity to march right up to him. "I suggest you take a taxi, ma'am."

"Thank you Officer," Mary Jane replied courteously. "I'll do that." She found a cab almost as soon as she got out of the subway, but traffic was so dense that it took her over an hour to get home. The problem was compounded by the presence of thousands of pedestrians in the streets who would normally be making a beeline for their subway rides out to Queens, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. Things were starting to look very ominous. "Excuse me, but could you please turn your radio on?" Mary Jane asked the cabbie.

"Sorry Miss, but the radio's not working today," he replied in heavily accented English.

"Oh, great!" she grumbled, marveling in spite of herself at the unfailing regularity with which Murphy's Law always seemed to operate.

It was a quarter past six by the time the cab rolled up to her building. She quickly paid her fare, raced upstairs and turned on her television. Sure enough, a breaking story was rapidly unfolding. Subway stops all over the city were being evacuated, apparently on orders from the police. Her concern growing, she watched Eyewitness News correspondent Diana Hambrick interview a cop in Times Square.

"Officer Carter," Hambrick queried, "Is there anything you can tell us about why the police decided to take such drastic measures?"

"Well, Diana it's a safety issue," the NYPD officer replied crisply as he struggled to adjust his microphone. "Apparently quite a few trains had been experiencing brake problems. The metro authority thought it best to get everyone out before there was a collision." But M.J. wasn't buying the official spin._ Brake failures? Come on, how stupid do they think we are?_ she thought angrily.

Her half-eaten dinner lay forgotten while she channel-surfed to see if the other networks had any more information. Watching CNN carry the story on its national news broadcast confirmed her suspicions of how serious the situation really was. She was about to turn the channel again when her mother called.

"Mary Jane? Oh, thank God you're all right!" Madeline Watson practically shrieked Her mother never sounded so frightened, not even when her father flew into one of his alcohol-induced rages. "Something's going on with the subways. The police are making everyone get out."

"I heard. They said it had something to do with 'brake problems' on a couple of trains." The sarcasm in her voice was unmistakable.

"I don't believe that," Madeline said, echoing her daughter's sentiments. "Do you know the odds against that many trains having brake failures in a single day? I've got a really bad feeling about this. I told my people to stay here until we know what's going on."

"You mean it's almost seven o'clock and you're still at the salon?"

"Yes."

"What about Dad?"

"I haven't been able to reach him."

"Let me guess. He's at Paulie's, getting sauced again, right?" Mary Jane said with a trace of contempt. Paulie's Bar And Grill was just down the street from her parents' house. Her father often staggered home from there after binging with his buddies.

"Listen Mary Jane," Madeline said, clearly more concerned about her daughter than her estranged husband. "Stay home. Please, whatever you do, don't leave your apartment."

"Stop worrying Mom. I'm not going anywhere . . . Hang on a second. They're holding a news conference."

"Yes I know. I'm watching it."

A balding, middle-aged detective named Nick Manolis was standing at a makeshift podium, hastily briefing the press. Mary Jane and her mother gasped in horror when they learned that Al Qaeda operatives had tried to blow up the subway system with radioactive explosives. But M.J's initial shock gave way to a tremendous sense of pride when the police captain singled out her amazing husband-to-be and the crimson-clad guardian of Hell's Kitchen for their heroic efforts in saving New York City from another catastrophic terrorist attack. For Peter, that was twice inside of a month.

"Hello? Mary Jane? Are you still there?"

"What? . . .Oh, yeah Mom," Mary Jane responded hastily, snapping out of her awe-induced trance.

"That Spider-Man is really incredible, don't you think?" her mother asked. Then she corrected herself, remembering how many times the webslinger had brought her little girl back from the brink. "Of course you do. I'm sorry."

"It's okay Mom," Mary Jane answered gently. "He is incredible. And his new partner's no slouch either."

But Mary Jane's observation about Daredevil sailed right over her mother's head. "Have you heard from Peter yet?" Madeline inquired, changing the subject.

The question momentarily caught M.J. off guard. "Peter? . . Uh . . . No. . . I mean . . . yes. I saw him over the weekend, right after I left the church."

"I figured that. But is he okay?"

"Don't worry Mom. Peter's fine." Mary Jane sighed, her heart melting with love. "Oh, and by the way, he asked me to marry him and I said yes."

Madeline Watson was thrilled, but not surprised. "Oh, Mary Jane that's wonderful news," she gushed. "Aren't you glad you listened to your father and me?"

"I'm glad I listened to you, Mom. If Dad had his way, I'd have been Mrs. Flash Thompson by now, if I wasn't already divorced."

"I don't think so, Mary Jane. Your father finally saw the light once it got through his thick head that Peter really did knock Flash out that time. To tell you the truth, I think he's been afraid of Peter ever since."

"Really? I never knew that." She paused to gather her thoughts. "You think he'll come to the wedding?"

"I'm sure he will. Have you set a date?"

"Not yet." There was something else on Mary Jane's mind. "Hey Mom, did Mr. Jameson give you a hard time?"

"Nope. We heard him screaming while we were still in the bridal room, but everyone had gone by the time we left." Madeline paused and said wistfully, "It is too bad about John. He's such a nice young man. I hope he finds someone else very soon."

"So do I Mom," M.J. answered. She'd expected her almost-father-in-law to fly off the handle and would've been surprised if he didn't. In one sense, she really couldn't blame him, given the way in which she ended her relationship with his son. But in another, broader sense, he deserved to be taken down a few notches for the way he treated people, especially Peter.

"Listen, I've got to go. And please don't say anything to Aunt May until Peter and I have a chance to talk to her."

"May's not around anymore, dear."

The shock of what Madeline had just said caused Mary Jane's throat to constrict and her knees to buckle. "Oh my God! When did she die?" M.J. gasped, on the verge of breaking down.

"Oh, no, no." Madeline responded, suddenly feeling extremely foolish at her choice of words. "May just moved away, that's all."

An intense wave of relief washed over M.J. "Jeez Mom, you really had me scared. How long ago did she move out?"

"A few weeks ago. The bank was about to foreclose on her house. I think she just got tired of fighting and wanted to get out with her dignity intact."

"Did she go far?"

"Only about six blocks. She lives at the Helmsley Village Towers, over on Union Avenue. Her phone number's still the same and we still talk every day. By the way, do you know what she said when I told her about your wedding?"

"No, what?"

"She told me that she knew you wouldn't go through with it."

Mary Jane was stunned. "How could she know?"

"Well Mary Jane, we had a long conversation the day before, and I bent her ear about my misgivings. It was pretty obvious to both of us that Peter's had a crush on you for a very long time, and that you were still in denial about your feelings for him."

"Was it that obvious?" M.J. asked, feeling somewhat sheepish.

"Yes dear, it was. He's such a bright, bright boy, and he's grown up to be rather handsome. Quite frankly, I'm so glad that you finally came to your senses."

"So am I Mom." Mary Jane reveled in hearing her mother sing her boyfriend's praises. "I can't wait until we tell Aunt May. Remember Mom, not a word.

"Don't worry Mary Jane. You're secret's safe."

"Thanks Mom. I love you."

"And I love you too sweetheart. Bye."

As she hung up the phone, Mary Jane realized, to her dismay, that she forgot to ask her mother if the biopsy results had come back from Sloan-Kettering. She was very concerned about Madeline's increasingly gaunt appearance in the weeks leading up to her almost-wedding. She resolved to call her mom back first thing in the morning.

Meanwhile a second news conference was getting underway. Mary Jane recognized the attractive, smartly dressed, forty-something blonde woman standing before the microphones. It was Pat Hamilton, the newly-elected district attorney for the Borough of Manhattan. She'd been in the news a lot lately, especially after she led the prosecution team that convicted Wilson Fisk and dozens of his underlings. Despite her numerous accomplishments, however, she was not well liked by the top brass of the NYPD because of her tendency to grandstand. And, to the dismay of J. Jonah Jameson, she publicly praised Spider-Man on more than one occasion, pointedly contradicting the pompous, self-righteous publisher's scathing editorials about the wall crawler.

Known for her loquaciousness, Ms. Hamilton surprised the press corps by delivering a remarkably brief statement. "Good evening ladies and gentlemen. Tomorrow morning, I will ask the grand jury looking into allegations of criminal conduct on the part of _Oscorp_ and its chairman to expand its probe to include any possible links to terrorist organizations. That's all." She promptly stepped away from the podium without taking any questions.

Mary Jane's mind went numb as she flipped off the TV. She wondered if this prosecutor might've been getting her information from fringe websites. Harry Osborn might've hated his former best friend, but the very idea that he would've deliberately allowed international terrorists to use his company's facilities to stage a major strike was simply too preposterous to take seriously. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the DA was out to nail Harry because of the Octavius affair, and was somehow trying to use the fact that the terrorists had set up shop in an _Oscorp_-owned building to bolster her case. _The whole world's gone crazy_, Mary Jane told herself, _and the only normal people left are Peter and Daredevil_.

Another thought occurred to Mary Jane as she was putting on her pajamas. Al Qaeda would soon be on Peter's already-long list of enemies, and knowing Peter as she did, he would probably be paranoid about protecting her from retaliation. Sadly, she resigned herself to not seeing or hearing from him for God-only-knew how long. _For my own safety_, she tried to reassure herself as she turned off her light and slipped under the covers, alone in her bed once more.


	14. Justice & Mercy

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**The description of Matt Murdock's brownstone is drawn from Greg Cox, _Daredevil_, (New York, Penguin Putnam, Inc. 2003), pp.81-85.**

"**Abandon hope, all ye who enter here." — An inscription at the entrance to hell as described by Dante in _The Divine Comedy_. E.D. Hirsch, Jr., Joseph F. Kett, and James Trefil (Eds.), The New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy, (3d Edition - New York, Houghton Miflin Co. 2002).**

**Peter's brief flashback to Harry Osborn's penthouse is taken, almost verbatim, but not quite, from: Peter David, _Spider-Man 2 - The Official Novelization of the Film _(New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2004), pp. 271-72.**

**For the benefit of our non-American readers, _Sing Sing_ and _Attica_ are prisons located in Upstate New York.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XIV**

**JUSTICE AND MERCY**

Mary Jane had her man figured out.

"For her own safety," Peter Parker whispered despondently as he stood with Matt Murdock on a ledge in the rapidly fading sunlight, watching the feds haul away the last of the suspected terrorists. Far from basking in the glory of foiling Al Qaeda's latest plot, Peter was in despair over how the ensuing publicity would make it even more dangerous for Mary Jane to be around him.

"Whose safety?" Matt inquired.

"You heard that?"

"There's very little I can't hear, Peter. What's on your mind?" The savvy lawyer figured out that behind Spider-Man's bravado-bolstered wisecracking was a scared young man trying to cope with responsibilities that should never have been his to begin with.

"My girlfriend . . . Mary Jane Watson."

"The woman who was with you behind the billboard the other night?"

A soft smile stretched the fabric of Peter's mask ever so slightly. "You know, you really spooked her, the way you went after those punks."

Matt was able to detect a subtle, yet pronounced change in Peter's heartbeat that signaled euphoria. "I wasn't anticipating an audience. But I imagine she's a very strong young lady."

Peter nodded enthusiastically. He'd only known Matt Murdock for a few hours, but he trusted his instincts enough to confide in the more seasoned urban warrior. "She walked away from her wedding to be with me," he said, his voice subdued.

"And you're afraid she's going to get more than she bargained for?"

"She already did. The guy she jilted was my boss's son."

"The _Daily Bugle_ publisher?"

"Uh huh," Peter answered.

"I could see how that could present a problem."

_Really?_ Peter thought sardonically. That was surely an understatement if he ever heard one. "Jameson's got a lot of clout. He'll use every bit of it to make sure that Mary Jane never finds another acting job again."

"I don't think so."

"How can you be so sure? He's got connections everywhere."

Matt smiled, both amazed and amused at how poetically justice can sometimes be served. How ironic that Peter's girlfriend left Jameson's son to be with the very object of the self-promoting mogul's smear campaign. "If it comes to that, have Mary Jane give us a call. My firm has successfully sued the _Daily Bugle_ twice for libel. I can't imagine that Mr. Jameson would be foolish enough to try for a hat trick."

But Peter did not feel reassured. "There's more to it than that," he said, staring into space. "M.J. and I love each other so much. But I've got enemies. And if I'm ever exposed . . ." His voice trailed off. He didn't even want to think it, let alone say it.

Matt finished the thought for him. "You're afraid that if your secret got out, your enemies would go after Mary Jane," he said flatly. "I can certainly understand that."

"My aunt too," Peter added. "And with all the publicity this terrorist thing is going to generate, I'm really afraid of what could happen."

"May I make a suggestion, Peter?"

"Please."

"Ditch that photographer."

"Which one? There are lots of them."

"The one that's always taking your picture."

"How would you know about that?" Peter asked, astonished. "You don't read newspapers."

"My partner does. I get a running commentary from Foggy on the tabloids all the time." Matt smiled, no longer mystified at why Peter Parker was the only photojournalist in all of New York City who could get Spider-Man's picture. "Publicity doesn't seem to help your cause."

"But it paid the bills." Peter replied, hoping that Matt would spare him the burden of an explanation.

"Can't you find another job?"

"I already did. You think I'm gonna stick around the _Bugle_ after what happened?"

"I would hope not." Matt said, observing that Peter's anxieties had still not subsided. "But Mr. Jameson's not the only thing that's troubling you, is he?"

"Actually, Jameson's the least of my concerns," Peter replied, overtones of worry evident in his voice. "My real problem is Harry Osborn."

Matt was astonished. "The kid who runs _Oscorp_?"

"Yeah. He knows who I am. He used to be my best friend. But now he hates my guts."

"Interesting." Matt's eyebrows went up behind his cowl. Like most lawyers in New York City, he'd been closely following the grand jury probe of _Oscorp_. He did not know Harry Osborn personally, but from everything he'd heard, he got the impression that the guy was a spoiled punk who had everything in life handed to him on a silver platter. As far as Matt was concerned, Osborn owed his position to his father's failure to plan for corporate succession. He was well aware that Pat Hamilton suspected a secret deal between Osborn and Otto Octavius, but couldn't prove it. _Or could she?_ Matt wondered. "Why does Mr. Osborn hate you?"he asked, the lawyer's corner of his brain springing into action.

"He thinks I murdered his father."

"Did you?" Matt asked, knowing the answer before Peter even drew a breath.

"Of course not!" Peter snapped.

"I believe you." Matt said, convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"Damn well you should. I just wish I could make Harry believe me."

"Have you tried?"

"Not yet."

Matt was about to probe Peter further concerning his relationship with Harry Osborn when suddenly, he heard a low humming off in the distance. He jerked his head up, looking in the general direction of Times Square.

"What is it?" Peter asked.

"Helicopter."

"So, what's the big deal? I see them all the time."

"This one's from the _Daily Bugle_. I can hear the voices in the cockpit." He paused, listening intently to several simultaneous conversations. "They're looking for you, apparently." Sure enough, the _Bugle's_ silver chopper suddenly appeared over the downtown skyline and was rapidly bearing down on them, it's on-board spotlight ready to shine on anything newsworthy, especially a pair of costumed crime fighters. "I can even hear Mr. Jameson's voice coming from their headsets," Matt chuckled.

"What's he saying?" Peter asked nervously.

"He's telling the crew to get footage of that wall-crawling freak leaving the crime scene or they'll be lucky to get jobs driving school buses."

"That's Jonah for you," Peter shouted to Matt in order to make himself heard over the thundering _whrrrrr_ of the fast-approaching helicopter's rotors. "He never stops trying to make me look bad."

"You don't have to yell, Peter. I can hear you just fine. Listen, they haven't spotted us yet. I suggest that we continue this conversation in private. Follow me." Without waiting for a response, he leaped off the ledge and fired his grappling hook.

"No need to tell me twice," Peter said, following suit. As they jumped, the pilot caught a brief glimpse of them, but by the time the cameraman hoisted his videocam into position, they were gone. Matt could faintly hear the cameraman yell, "Aw, nuts," to which the pilot replied. "Just tell the boss we didn't see anything."

A short time later, the twin demons landed on the roof of a weather-beaten brownstone townhouse, deep in the heart of Hell's Kitchen. "This way," Matt directed, leading Peter up a short flight of steps to a solid steel door. Peter looked on in amazement as Matt spun three combination locks simultaneously and stopped every one of them at precisely the right click. The door promptly swung open, revealing shadows that were darker than a midnight sky.

"You should've been a safecracker," Peter quipped.

"Save it Peter," Matt said wearily. "Come on."

As Peter crossed the threshold of Matt's abode, he felt like he was stepping into a tomb. Matt flipped a switch, and instantly the interior of the brownstone was bathed in a dim light. Peter found himself descending a stairway flanked on the right by a large bas relief depicting angels and devils forever locked in frozen battle. The only thing missing was a certain inscription over the door, etched in blood — _Abandon hope, all ye who enter here _. . .

Matt turned on a few more switches at the bottom of the stairs, flooding the rest of his suite with that same eerie light. _Homey is definitely not the word I would use to describe this place_, Peter thought ruefully. _Edgar Allen Poe would've no doubt loved it here_. The walls and appliances all had a dark, metallic decor, and everything was at right angles to everything else. There were no sofas, no pillows, not one soft object in the entire apartment. But he could see from Matt's sigh of relief that, to his host at least, the place was home, a dark, silent, and spotlessly clean haven from a hostile world.

The only visible decorative item was a pair of old, worn boxing gloves mounted on a wall plaque. Hanging from one of the gloves was a delicate metal cartouche on which were inscribed Greek letters and a pattern of dots which Peter recognized as Braille.

Matt reached out and softly touched the gloves. Sensing Peter's curiosity, he remarked, "They belonged to my father. The necklace was given to me by the woman I love."

"What happened to them?" Peter asked quietly as he removed his mask.

"My father was taken from me . . . because he refused to throw a fight. It happened when I was twelve. I was left alone . . . an orphan." Matt fought to keep his emotions in check as memories too painful to deal with welled up from his subconscious.

That terrible revelation brought Peter Parker closer to Matt Murdock than to anyone else on Earth. They were brothers after all, spawned from the blood of their loved ones. Here at last was someone he could truly relate to, someone who could understand him in ways that not even Mary Jane could.

Peter reached out and gently put his hand on Matt's shoulder in an empathetic gesture of solidarity. "My uncle was murdered too," he said softly, "by a carjacker."

Matt acknowledged their common bond by reaching up and lightly patting Peter's hand with his own. "On the night my father died, I swore that I would bring his killer to justice. It took me twenty two years . . ."

"Fisk?" Peter asked in a whisper, remembering Ben Urich's Pulitzer Prize piece in the _New York Post_ about Daredevil having a hand in bringing down the Kingpin.

Matt nodded.

"Did he kill your girlfriend too?"

"He tried to. Brought in an assassin from overseas named Bullseye, whose great talent was turning anything he could get his hands on into a weapon. That's how the Kingpin operated. It wasn't enough just to kill you. He wiped out your whole family." Matt clenched both fists, the closure he so desperately sought eluding him once again.

As for Peter, he felt utterly disgusted at both Wilson Fisk's hypocrisy and his own dependency on _Fiskcorp's_ foundations. The generous benefactor who'd helped to nurture his scientific talent had turned out to be a ruthless gang lord who'd snuffed out more than a thousand lives over the course of a criminal career that had apparently lasted for decades. By not giving back his _Fiskcorp_- funded scholarships, Peter felt as though he had been taking blood money. Where did that money come from? Contract killings? Narcotics? Loan sharking? It didn't matter. Regardless of what he might accomplish, his personal integrity would be stained for the rest of his life.

"I was sure that Bullseye had murdered her," Matt continued. "But after her supposed death, I found this." Matt reverently cradled the cartouche between his gloved fingers as if it were a rosary. "She left it for me as a token of her promise to come back . . .but she never did." Gazing at the necklace, Peter failed to make the connection between Matt Murdock's lover and the leather-clad female ninja he'd brought to the emergency room at Columbia University Hospital over seven months earlier.

Matt grimaced as he took off his jacket and cowl. His appearance shocked Peter. Myriad scars crisscrossed his chest, back, and shoulders, ugly reminders of fights too numerous to count. But it was Matt's battle-worn face, especially his eyes, that really unnerved Peter. They were milky and opaque, horribly scarred by the accident that took his sight away. And there was a cragginess around them that spoke of having dealt with life's darker side far too many times. In Matthew Murdock, Peter Parker suddenly saw what he would have become had Mary Jane listened to him and remained with John Jameson. And that frightened him more than any supervillain or terrorist ever could.

Matt suddenly winced, putting a hand against his back. "Could you excuse me for a few minutes please, Peter?" he gasped through gritted teeth. He was obviously in severe pain, unable to hide it any longer.

"No problem. Take your time." Peter answered, wondering how his new friend managed to survive as long as he had.

Matt pressed a wall panel, and the entire left side of his foyer opened like huge vertical Venetian blinds to reveal another side of the apartment. He disappeared between the blinds. Peter could hear groans coming from the shadows as Matt divested himself of the rest of his costume. He emerged few minutes later, wearing old sweat pants and a _Columbia Law_ t-shirt with faded lettering. He was carrying a vial of Percoset. Peter watched in disbelief as Matt popped four of the prescription-strength painkillers into his mouth all at once, chewing them like candy. For once, Peter Parker didn't take his own regenerative healing powers for granted.

Matt motioned Peter to sit down at the kitchen table. He quickly called his law partner and told him to send the Aziz family home. Then he opened his refrigerator and tossed Peter a bottle of mineral water. Without so much as batting an eyelash, Peter snatched it out of the air in mid-flight.

"Thanks," Peter said as he opened the bottle and took a huge swig. He hadn't had a drink all day. The refreshing water had a hint of lemon, which gave it a pleasant aftertaste.

"Now, tell me about the situation between you and Mr. Osborn." Matt inquired as he sat down next to Peter.

"Is this off the record?"

"You mean is it privileged? Of course. This is a client consultation. Anything we discuss stays in this room."

Matt's promise of confidentiality put Peter at ease right away. "It's kind of complicated," he explained cautiously. "Harry's father died in an accident. When I brought the body home, Harry saw me standing there and somehow got it stamped on his brain that I killed his dad. He's been obsessed with getting revenge on Spider-Man ever since. But the strange thing was that Harry still thought of Peter Parker as his best friend."

"I see," Matt responded impassively, his senses trained on Peter like laser beams. Although Peter felt completely relaxed as he spoke, Matt was able to detect subtle changes in his heartbeat, changes which indicated that Peter was holding something back. But he decided not to confront Peter about it directly, preferring instead to let Peter reveal it when he felt ready. "So, is it safe to say that, ever since his father died, Mr. Osborn loved you and hated you at the same time?" Matt asked wryly.

Peter smiled, marveling at Matt's flawless perception as well as his dry sense of humor. "Essentially."

"How did Osborn find out that you were Spider-Man?"

"I fought Otto Octavius. You know about that, right?"

"Yes."

"After the train battle, Otto knocked me out, wrapped me up in barbed wire, and carried me to Harry's place. I was tied up on a couch and half out of it. Harry was about to stick a knife into me. Then he pulled my mask off . . . "

"Why did Octavius hand you over to Osborn?"

"Harry must've made a deal with Otto for tritium."

"Is that the catalyst that Octavius used to fire up his fusion machine?"

"Exactly," Peter said, lightly hitting the table with the side of his hand to make his point.

Matt was on it instantly. "Okay Peter, this is very important. Are you telling me that Octavius did not steal the tritium from _Oscorp_, but that Mr. Osborn _gave_ it to him?"

"I never actually heard Otto and Harry talk directly," Peter responded. "I was semi-conscious when Otto brought me there."

"That's alright. Just tell me what you did hear."

Peter struggled to recall the hazy details of the brief conversation they had after Harry had yanked off his mask . . .

"_Harry, Listen to me! If you have any idea what he wants—"_

"_All . . . he wanted was the tritium . . ."_

"_Tritium! Harry! He's making the machine again!"_

" . . . and that's all I can remember." Peter said, his heartbeat confirming his veracity.

But it was enough. For nearly a minute, Matt didn't say a word. Finally, he looked up at Peter, his face grim. "I'd say that your friend Mr. Osborn is in very deep trouble."

"For what?" Peter asked, dumbfounded.

Matt ticked off a laundry list of felony counts. "Perjury, attempted murder, kidnaping, conspiracy, theft, breach of corporate fiduciary obligations. Osborn could get up to thirty years if he's convicted on all counts. I should also mention that Osborn was buying up _Oscorp_ shares as the stock price was falling. The SEC could charge him with market manipulation, insider trading, and securities fraud, which could mean another ten years. And if he personally controlled the company at the time he handed the tritium over to Octavius, the damage claims from all the civil suits against _Oscorp_ could wipe it off the map."

"Jesus Christ!" Peter murmured, unable to believe that he and Matt were talking about the same person. The man being targeted by the DA bore no resemblance to the Harry Osborn that Peter had grown up with. "Are they going to charge him with being an accessory to what happened today?"

"No," Matt explained patiently. "The DA knows she'll never be able to make that charge stick. But I'm sure the she'll use Mr. Osborn's failure to put guards around his facility to establish a track record of reckless behavior. Unfortunately, it's the only hook she can hang her hat on."

"Why?"

"Because without you, Peter, the DA has no case. You're the only one who can tie Osborn directly to Octavius's second experiment. That's what the DA needs to win a conviction."

"Matt," Peter said anxiously, "you're not saying that you want me to testify against Harry, are you?"

"Don't worry, "Matt reassured his new companion as he listened to Peter's heartbeat fluttering erratically. "I would never recommend that you testify in open court. All you'd need to do is have your deposition taken in a private law office or some other undisclosed location."

This surprised Peter somewhat. "You mean, I wouldn't have to reveal my identity to get my testimony in?"

"Not at all," Matt replied confidently. "Obtaining evidence from anonymous witnesses is nothing new. It's done all the time. You've heard of the witness protection program, haven't you?"

"Sure."

"Well, that's all it is. It would just be you and your attorney, the prosecutor, and defense counsel. Reporters would be barred. You could even sit behind a screen, have your voice disguised. As long as you can be cross-examined, you'll have no problem maintaining your anonymity. _And_, you'll ensure that justice is served."

At first, Peter was inclined to agree. But the more he thought about it, the more he began to harbor serious reservations. On the one hand, Harry's selfish, idiotic actions caused nearly a billion dollars worth of property damage and jeopardized millions of lives. Harry's own words proved his complicity. But on the other hand, Harry knew that he was Spider-Man. Without an incentive to keep quiet, there would be nothing to stop Harry from destroying his life and jeopardizing the safety of his loved ones. On top of that, Peter had no desire to see his only true friend put away. He knew that Harry had been a victim of emotional abuse and neglect for years. Harry needed psychiatric care to stop his downward spiral, not incarceration. Peter doubted that Harry would even make it through a trial.

"Matt," he asked tentatively, "can you guarantee that Harry will keep his mouth shut about me?"

Matt knew exactly where Peter was going. "You're afraid that if you turned Mr. Osborn in, you'd be throwing away the only leverage you have to keep him from exposing you."

"You got it, Chief," Peter said firmly. "Mary Jane and Aunt May are all I have in the world. I can't take a chance on anything happening to them."

Matt totally understood Peter's concerns, having had to keep his own secret from his closest friend for exactly the same reason. But he also felt that letting Osborn off the hook would result in a large-scale denial of justice. He placed a comforting hand on Peter's shoulder. "I know how hard this must be for you, Peter," he said gently. "But I have to be honest. I think Harry Osborn ought to be held responsible for what he did. Giving Octavius the tritium, knowing what he was going to do with it, was no different than giving a loaded gun to a convicted murderer. Osborn could well have saved Al Qaeda the trouble."

"Don't you think I know that?" Peter shot back, feeling torn between two undesirable courses of action and desperately looking for a third one. "You and the DA have Harry pegged as some kind of criminal mastermind, like the Kingpin. And that just isn't the Harry Osborn that I know." Mentally exhausted, Peter planted his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands. "I really don't know what to do Matt," he sighed, feeling as if the walls were closing in on him. "I just don't know."

Matt was not entirely unsympathetic toward Peter's plight. "Do you think Osborn might be insane?" he inquired thoughtfully. Having raised the insanity defense on behalf of many clients over the years, Matt thought it would be worthwhile to at least consider that possibility.

"I do," Peter affirmed.

"Okay Peter, now listen carefully. In order for Osborn to plead insanity, he would have to show that, at the time he gave Octavius the tritium, his mental capacity was so diminished that he couldn't distinguish right from wrong. Do you think that he can make that kind of showing?"

"Absolutely!"

"All right then. Tell me why."

Peter drew a deep breath. There was no point in hiding it any longer. "Do you remember the Green Goblin?"

"Of course. That was Osborn?"

"No. It was his father."

_So, that's what Peter was holding back on_, a surprised Matt Murdock thought as he once again detected a change in Peter's heart rhythm. "Well, Peter, that would change the equation quite substantially, in terms of both heredity and behavior."

Peter nodded his head vigorously. "The last time I saw Harry, he was barely hanging on. And if he ever found out the truth about his father, it would unhinge him completely, especially if he's got some sort of predisposition."

Matt agreed, albeit somewhat reluctantly. "All right, Peter. You know Osborn far better than I do, so I'll defer to your judgment. Do what you think is best."

"You won't go to the DA?" Peter asked, unsure of what Matt had just told him.

"If I did, I would be disbarred for breach of ethics." Matt told him firmly. "Let me again assure you that everything we discussed here tonight will remain confidential."

"Thanks," Peter responded, grateful for the vote of confidence that Matt Murdock had given him. "What do I owe you?"

"Your soul," Matt responded with a mockingly menacing smile.

"Not my first born?" Peter retorted with a laugh.

"That too. But seriously, don't worry about it. I'm taking your case pro bono."

"I appreciate it very much, Matt," Peter replied, imagining Aunt May sternly admonishing him not to be a freeloader. "But that's your livelihood. It wouldn't be right."

Matt was impressed by Peter's ironclad sense of ethics. But he still felt uneasy about charging his full fee to the struggling college student. "Okay, Peter, if you feel that strongly about it, we'll work out some sort of arrangement."

"That's fine." He glanced out Matt's window and saw that darkness had fallen. "I have to go. I was supposed to be studying for finals today."

"In what?" Matt asked, genuinely curious.

"Quantum mechanics, microbiology, and biochemistry."

"I apologize for having to pull you away from your studies, Peter, but your testimony in court today was invaluable for our client."

"No problem. Glad to help."

Suddenly a lightbulb went on inside Matt Murdock's head as he showed his guest to his "front" door. "Peter, what do you know about DNA?" he asked as they stepped out onto the roof.

Peter smiled. "Quite a bit actually. I just finished an honors seminar on genetics. I tested out of the basic course."

"That's quite amazing," Matt said admiringly. "Do you know enough to do a forensic DNA analysis?"

"Sure. I know all the basic techniques and most of the advanced ones. The final project in our seminar was to do a simulation. We had to use DNA testing to get a murder conviction overturned. I got the highest grade in the class."

_Perfect,_ Matt thought excitedly. "That's exactly the kind of expertise our firm needs right now. How would you like to work off your fee?"

"How?" It sounded to Peter like another job offer was coming.

Matt quickly explained. "I've got three clients on Sing Sing's death row. They're all innocent, believe me. But their attorneys screwed up, and I'm handling the appeals. All we need to get them off is reliable DNA evidence. I've got hearings coming up. I need someone to review the work that was originally done on the samples taken from the crime scene and testify about the results. Think you can do it?"

"I know I could. But I'm not an expert."

But the sharp lawyer had already done his research. "You mean you don't have the credentials. That won't be a problem, trust me. You make one hell of a witness, Peter. Your experience will establish your expertise."

"So, I can pay my legal fees by helping you get your clients off death row?" Peter asked, excited and intrigued by the possibilities. Opportunities to do public service always appealed to him.

"Only the first one. My law firm will pay you for the other two after we get reimbursed by the state."

"How much?"

"Five thousand dollars per case. Do a good job on these and more cases will follow. Interested?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?" Peter quipped excitedly, his eyes all but popping out of his head. Between this and his work for Connors, he could finally afford a decent place to live and court Mary Jane the way she deserved. He couldn't wait to tell her.

Matt produced a business card and handed it to Peter. "Give me a call when you're finished with school. The first hearing's less than a month away, probably sooner."

"Thanks, Matt," Peter said. "I appreciate the opportunity."

"I'm the one who should be thanking you," Matt responded as they shook hands on the roof. "And don't forget to dump that photographer."

"I won't," Peter responded as he donned his mask, smiling at the prospect of firing himself. "I'll do it first thing in the morning."

As Matt retreated into his sepulcher-like home, Peter fired his webline and took off, grateful for the continuing upswing in his personal fortunes. It was nice to know that he would not have to battle the bad guys by himself anymore. But his session with Harry could no longer be put off. He just hoped that he wasn't too late.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

It was nearly eleven o'clock by the time Peter arrived at the Osborn family residence in the upper East Side, the most exclusive and expensive part of Manhattan. The lights were on in the penthouse and the french doors leading to the terrace garden were still open. Peter hoped that Edmund Bernard, the family retainer, had gone home for the evening, so that there wouldn't be any witnesses.

Peter still felt deeply conflicted. Matt Murdock was absolutely right that Harry ought to be held responsible for all the damage he caused, and for Mary Jane almost losing her life. But at the same time, he realized that Harry couldn't be culpable if he was incapable of understanding the consequences of his actions. Peter really needed time alone with Harry to sort things out. _Maybe Harry could be persuaded to settle the matter and avoid a trial altogether_, he hoped.

Peter landed as silently as a prowling tiger on the terrace, quickly changed into his street clothes, and made his way toward the french doors, his heart in his mouth. He prayed that Harry would be awake, sober, and rational enough to hear him out.

Getting as close as he could to the doors without being seen from inside, Peter almost gasped when he saw a life-sized portrait of Mary Jane hanging near the fireplace. He had never noticed the picture before. M.J. was sitting in a chair, wearing the same black dress she wore on that dreadful Thanksgiving day back in the loft. _He must've had it commissioned when they were still dating_, Peter thought. Although she looked incredibly beautiful in that painting, he found it oddly disturbing that Harry hadn't bothered to take the picture down after they broke up. _Oh, man, he's still got feelings for her_, Peter grimly realized.

Looking around the enormous living room,he saw Norman Osborn's big desk , still on a forty-five degree angle to the fireplace. The back of the chair was facing the desk. Everything else was exactly where it had been the last time he was here.

Even though this place was a luxury penthouse, Peter thought that it was much more of a dungeon than Matt Murdock's brownstone. An air of total desolation permeated the place. He suddenly recoiled as he caught the powerful smell of ammonia wafting through the french doors. It was an unmistakable sign that someone had vomited on the carpeted floor. He heard the sound of a swivel chair turning, and looked up to see his one-time best friend sitting behind the desk. Peter's jaw fell and he let out a quick gasp.

Harry looked as if he hadn't slept for days. All but gone was his more-than-passing resemblance to James Dean. He was completely disheveled, his suit rumpled and wrinkled, his hair matted and unkempt, and his face covered with thickening stubble. He'd obviously been drinking heavily, judging from the presence of empty liquor bottles scattered on the floor around his desk. His eyes were sunken and hollow, and his skin was very pale. He was holding the Green Goblin's mask in one hand, staring at it and babbling incoherently, like some drunken Hamlet. _Oh my God!_ Peter exclaimed to himself, _He knows._ But that was not what caused his spider-sense to go off. In his other hand, Harry was holding a pistol and raising it to his forehead, his shaking finger just microseconds away from squeezing the trigger.

Peter reacted instantly, his life-saving instincts honed by two years worth of lightning-fast reflex actions. He fired a precisely-aimed web ball that knocked the pistol out of Harry's hand and sent it flying with a _clang_ into the brick facade of the fireplace. Harry cried out in surprise. But he was too inebriated to feel any pain.

"That isn't the answer, Harry." Peter said gently, slowly walking in through the french doors.

With obvious effort, Harry struggled to focus on Peter. For a few seconds, his eyes wandered independently of each other before settling in on their target. "What the fuck are you doing here!" he shouted in a drunken slur. "Get the hell away from me! I have nothing left any more! Let me go to my father."

Peter felt heartsick at seeing Harry in such a state of torment. Harry must've watched the newscasts and found out that Al Qaeda terrorists had set up shop in one of his buildings. And that, together with the fact that his best friend was his arch-enemy, must-ve pushed him dangerously close to the edge. Peter was not a psychiatrist, but he knew that Harry's suicide attempt and expressions of hopelessness were signs of severe depression. That alone was enough to resolve Peter's moral dilemma about testifying, and confirm that Harry needed psychiatric intervention, and needed it fast.

"Take my word for it,you really don't want to be where your father is now," Peter said soothingly. "Harry, you need help. You're still my best friend . . ."

"Best friend!" Harry screamed, his words tripping over one another as they fought their way out of his mouth. "You screw up my life every way you can and you still talk about us being best friends? You took my father! You took my girlfriend . . . And now, let me guess. You're gonna take my company away from me too, right?"

"Harry, you're barely making any sense."

"Don't play dumb with me, you fucking hypocrite!" he shrieked. "I know all about the goddamn grand jury! I know that those fucking terrorists got into my warehouse! So who winds up being the fucking hero again! Always saving someone, aren't you, huh? You and that other creep who got dredged up from the sewers . . ." Harry couldn't even think straight. Desperate for another drink, he reached for a bottle of Cutty Sark that was sitting on the desk, but it was empty. He tried to throw the bottle at Peter, but all he managed to do was to knock it over.

"Harry, you're drunk. You really need to lay off that stuff."

Harry went on, oblivious. "And guess what? You're the only one who can nail me. All you have to do is show up at that courthouse and tell them about me and Octavius, and they'll take me to the cleaners. Send me right to fucking Attica! Right?"

"It's not that simple, Harry. I . . ."

"RIGHT?" he yelled.

"I don't want to do it," Peter said quietly, doing his best to remain calm. "I'm not going to testify."

For a brief moment, it looked as though Peter might have actually gotten through. Harry looked as if he wanted to take Peter at his word. But all of a sudden, he glanced toward the sofa on Peter's left, as if someone was sitting there, giving cues. Following Harry's eyes, Peter involuntarily turned to look in that direction, and saw no one. But Harry obviously did.

"Bullshit! You think I'm an idiot?" Harry laughed contemptuously at Peter, his voice oozing black, slimy venom. "That's exactly what my father says you'll do. Peter Parker, the self-righteous slime ball. He'll always do the right thing, no matter who he fucks over in the process. Boy was I stupid not to see it."

_His father? Is that who he sees on the sofa? _Peter thought, his mind racing as the severity of Harry's condition became apparent. He knew now that Harry was in no shape to stand trial, not if he was psychotic.

"Harry, I want to make a deal with you." he said softly, trying to get through to his friend before he lost it completely. "We both know each other's secrets. If you keep silent about me, I promise I won't go to the grand jury."

Harry stared blankly at him.

Peter laid it on the line, hoping for a breakthrough. "You dated M.J. once, and you obviously still care about her," he pleaded, nodding briefly toward Mary Jane's portrait. "You don't really want to see her get hurt, do you? Because that's exactly what will happen if you expose me. M.J. will become a target for Al Qaeda and everyone else who's got it in for me."

Harry looked momentarily confused. He glanced back toward the sofa, like an actor who had forgotten his lines and was looking for stage directions. Then he broke out in an evil, Goblin-like laugh. "What's the matter Pete?" he sneered with bitter sarcasm. "Afraid you won't get any more blow jobs?"

Peter now realized that it wasn't Harry who was trying to provoke him with such vile utterances about the woman he loved. But all the same, he had to fight the urge to kick in Harry's teeth. He took a few deep breaths to dissipate the anger that was rapidly building up inside him. "Don't listen to him, Harry," he urged. "He isn't real. You don't want to be like him. You've got to get rid of him before it's too late."

"I don't know what you're talking about, you asshole!" Harry hissed. But then he said something that gave Peter a tiny sliver of hope that a little of his personality might still be left. "This may seem hard for you to believe, but I still care about Mary Jane too. I still cherish her friendship. As far as I'm concerned, M.J. is off limits. For better or for worse . . . no, for worse, since she's made her decision. But that's okay, because very soon she'll wake up and find that she's a beautiful young widow. And I'll be there for her."

Peter ignored Harry's less-than-subtle threats. "Harry, you have to understand something," he said, still wanting more than anything to set things right between them. "I promised your dad just before he died that I would never tell you about the Green Goblin, but you've obviously discovered that for yourself. So there's no longer any reason to keep it from you. Please, let me just tell you the truth about what happened, and maybe, just maybe, we could get back to where we were before this whole Spider-Man thing got started."

"Get back to where we _were_?" Harry yelled. "There's nothing left to go back to! You should've thought of that before you killed my father!"

"I didn't kill your father," Peter responded calmly. "And you know it."

"That's not true!" Harry shouted like a hyper-petulant toddler, apparently being urged on by the unseen presence on the sofa. "I saw you standing there with my father's body! Right here! Right here in this room!"

"Harry," Peter said slowly, realizing with dawning horror that he was once again battling the Green Goblin. "He did it to himself. He tried to run me through with his glider, the night he kidnaped Mary Jane and threw her off the 59th Street Bridge. All I did was get out of the way."

"I don't wanna hear any more of this bullshit, you fucking liar!" Harry screamed even louder. To drown out Peter's voice, he squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears with his hands.

Peter was down to his last arrow. "The balcony, Harry," he said gently, but unwaveringly. "Remember the balcony, when the Goblin took out the _Oscorp_ Board? He knew that you were up there when he destroyed that balcony. He tried to kill you along with the Board members. They were useless to him . . . just as you were." Peter's voice took on a tone of desperate urgency. "Think about it Harry. Your father didn't even think twice about killing his own son."

The conviction in Peter's words struck Harry with the force of a cannon ball, breaking his father's tight grip, if only for a moment. The fear and rage drained out of Harry's eyes, leaving them lucid once more. "Help me Pete!" Harry whispered frantically in a final, desperate plea. "He's taking over! I can't keep him away anymore." He picked up the Goblin's mask and tried to smash it against the desk, but couldn't even dent it.

But Harry's distress signal had reached its intended destination. Peter knew exactly what Harry wanted him to do. "It's okay buddy— I'm here— just hang in there," he tried to reassure his friend as he threw the mask on the floor and brought his fist down on top of it with all his might. Unable to withstand the massive pressure, the mask crumpled, its yellow eyepieces shattering. Peter kept pounding it until there was nothing left but a clump of green metal.

Unfortunately, both Peter and Harry had underestimated the violent tenacity of Norman Osborn's ghost. Harry's mental state had been so weakened by the boundary issues he had with his father that, without his delusional belief that Peter was responsible for Norman's death, there was nothing left to hold his tortured mind together. "No, No, NO! Aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!" Harry screamed, foaming at the mouth as Norman refused to let go. Before Peter's eyes, Harry was regressing, going back to a child-like existence. He curled up into a fetal pose, covering his face and ears with his hands and tucking his chin into his chest. Peter felt utterly helpless as he watched Harry enter the final stages of a complete mental and emotional breakdown. Harry's eyes rolled up inside his head, and he pitched forward out of the chair, crashing face first on the floor. The exorcism had failed.

"Oh, Christ, no!" Peter muttered as he laid Harry out and checked to make sure he was still breathing. It was decision time. He had to get Harry to a hospital, preferably one with a psychiatric ward. Bellevue was too far, but Lenox Hill was on 77th Street, only a few blocks away. Once back in uniform, he threw Harry's unconscious form over his shoulder. Because of the way he was carrying Harry, he could not use his webbing to swing between buildings, so he had to settle for leaping between rooftops, a.k.a. Daredevil.

As the hospital came within sight, Peter's Spider-sense went off. An instant later, he heard a gurgling sound. He knew what was coming, but there was no way he could avoid it. Harry's body was reacting as anyone's would to massive consumption of eighty-proof blended scotch whiskey. Still unconscious, Harry threw up all over Peter's shoulder and back. Peter wrinkled his nose in disgust at the appalling stench of alcohol mixed with stomach acids.

Wasting no time, Peter landed in front of the emergency room entrance and carried Harry in through the double-doors. "I found this man unconscious in his apartment nearby," he said to the on-duty receiving nurse, who quickly ordered a stretcher.

Several more attendants materialized, and in no time, they strapped Harry down and wheeled him into the emergency room.

"Thank you Spider-Man," the nurse said, keeping her distance for obvious reasons. "We'll take it from here." But he was gone by the time she finished.

_And I'll bet you're thinking, "Why the hell don't you take a shower,"_ Peter said to himself as he leaped skyward once again, his costume stained with vomit. _Don't worry, That's exactly what I'm going to do._

Peter made his way back to his apartment, longing for the security of his own bed so that he could put this awful day behind him. His worst fears about his friend had been realized. Harry was much too fragile to handle the truth about his father. Seeing Harry reduced to a shell of his former self was more than Peter could bear. It left him feeling absolutely devastated, his guilt at precipitating Harry's sharp decline swamping whatever pride he might have felt about his heroism that day. _Harry's right about one thing,_ he thought bitterly, _Every time I try to do the right thing, someone I care about always gets hurt. __It never fails._

Physically tired and emotionally drained, Peter arrived home, slipping in through his open balcony windows in order to avoid his annoying landlord. He swiftly changed out of his costume and put it in a plastic garbage bag. He threw on his ratty old bathrobe and showered up, grateful that Ditkovitch wasn't awake. As long as he kept up his rent, that ex-commissar wouldn't hound him. He couldn't wait until finals were over and he could start looking for a new place. He lathered himself up thoroughly to make sure that the odor of Harry's puke was completely gone. Once he finished toweling off, he rushed down to the laundromat and washed his costume twice. It took nearly an hour to remove the awful aroma, but at least the problem had been solved. While he was waiting, he reviewed his notes in preparation for his upcoming finals. When his costume was finally dry, he trudged back upstairs, and got into bed, knowing that he had to get up in two hours for more cramming.

"I love you Mary Jane," he whispered softly, breathing a sigh of relief as he finally turned out the lights on one of the most bizarre days of his young life.


	15. Collateral Damage

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**Special thanks go to Htbthomas for her wonderful story, _It Has Always Been You_, which was the inspiration for Peter's almost-confession in J. Jonah Jameson's office. Likewise, your idea of M.J. and Louise having lunch at an outdoor café in _Enquiring Minds_ was so fitting that I just had to borrow it. **

**The reference to _Barney's_ is drawn from: Peter David, _Spider-Man 2 - The Official Novelization of the Movie_, (New York, Random House Publishing Group 2004), p. 184. This scene did not appear in the film.**

**Mata Hari was an exotic dancer who was accused of spying for the Germans during World War I. She was executed in 1917. **

**In his conversation with Peter, John refers to the duel that took place in Weehawken, New Jersey, between Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr on July 11, 1804.**

**The name of Bob Cramer's company, _Lorelei Communications_, is taken from _The Gilmore Girls_. It's flagship publication, _Weekly World News Update_, is inspired by _U.S. News And World Report_.**

**The line about Jameson "going Ahab," is a reference to Captain Ahab, the megalomaniac sea captain in Herman Melville's _Moby Dick_, who obsessively seeks revenge against a white whale for maiming him.**

**_Mama Leone's_ was a famous Italian restaurant on West 48th Street, in New York City.**

**_Molsons_ is the name of a fine Canadian ale. The reference is included to honor two Canadians in our little fanfic community, one for whom I serve as a beta, and the other who serves as a beta for me. You know who you are. Thanks for the education.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XV**

**COLLATERAL DAMAGE**

"Come on Mary Jane, pick up," Peter whispered impatiently into the phone at N.Y.U.'s student center. He had finished his biochemistry final thirty minutes early and had walked out with a quiet confidence that he'd aced the exam without breaking too much of a sweat. All he wanted to hear at the moment was M.J.'s voice.

He got his wish, literally, in the form of her voice-mail recording. "Damn!" he muttered just before hearing the beep. "Hey M.J . . . It's Peter . . . Um . . .Everything's all right. . .I just had a bit of trouble with . . ." He suddenly stopped, tired of getting tongue-tied telling Mary Jane how he felt about her. "Aw hell, M.J., I really hate being apart from you. You were all I thought about yesterday. I'll be free tomorrow night around five, after I hand in my final project for American Lit." He glanced quickly at his watch. "Three hours until my next final. Guess I'll go shoot some pool. Just kidding . . . I love you." Mildly disappointed at not being able to talk to her in person, he hung up the phone and hurried off to the library for a final review of quantum mechanics.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Mary Jane was not at home when Peter called. She was at _Zaire's_, a well-known outdoor café in Greenwich Village, about five blocks away from the N.Y.U. campus. Unlike the day before, however, she had some much-welcome company.

Louise was already sitting at a table for two when Mary Jane arrived. The two women gave each other a long, drawn out hug, happy to see one another after the tumultuous events of three days earlier. To M.J., those three days seemed like a lifetime.

Louise's eyes were immediately drawn to the new engagement ring on Mary Jane's left hand. "Wow girl, you don't waste any time," she said excitedly as she gazed at the heart-shaped diamond. "Is it him?"

"Who?" Mary Jane asked coyly, a mischievous gleam in her eyes.

"That guy. The one you had the perfect kiss with."

A huge, sparkling smile broke out on Mary Jane's face and her eyes lit up like twin stars. "Yes," she said giddily, recalling an earlier conversation they had in the shoe department at _Barney's_, in which she had told her friend half-heartedly that the perfect kisser was just a fantasy. "My Flying Dutchman came home to me at last!"

As Louise looked into Mary Jane's iridescent green eyes, she saw a radiance that she'd never observed even once during M.J.'s entire engagement to John. She knew instantly that Mary Jane was deeply in love with whoever had given her that ring. But she was a bit puzzled by M.J.'s reference to the legendary sea ghost.

"Did I get it right this time?" Mary Jane quipped softly.

"Absolutely," Louise replied. "That stone says it all. It's really beautiful. Congratulations, for the second time."

Their orders arrived. As they ate their rather large arugula salads, Louise pulled Sunday's _New York Post_ out of her handbag.

"I saved this for you," Louise said as she handed the paper to Mary Jane. "I wasn't sure if you had seen it or not." The huge headline read, **BUGLE PUBLISHER'S SON DUMPED ON WEDDING DAY**. To M.J.'s surprise, the focus of the story was not the runaway bride or the jilted groom, but rather on how John leapt to her defense after his father had threatened to ruin her and her new beau.

"Is that what really happened?" a stunned M.J. whispered.

"Uh huh," Louise told her somberly. "He really went to bat for you. Shut his old man up in front of five hundred people. Now that's class."

Mary Jane suddenly lost her appetite. She felt troubled, not by her decision to break off her engagement, but rather by her timing and the very public way in which she had done it. No one deserved to be humiliated like that, especially not a good and decent man like John Jameson. "How's he holding up?" M.J. asked quietly, hoping that John had already gotten over her somehow.

"Better than most guys in his situation." Louise noticed that the glow on Mary Jane's face had dimmed. "You know," she said, trying to cheer M.J. up, "the last guy I broke up with got so drunk afterward that he was picked up by the police at four the next morning, naked, shouting obscene things about me in the middle of Mulberry street."

That got a soft chuckle out of Mary Jane, but not enough to wipe away the guilt she was feeling. _I've already been around Peter too long_, she thought soberly. _He's starting to rub off on me_.

Louise gently took M.J.'s hand in hers, thinking that her best friend was being plagued by second thoughts about what must have been a profoundly difficult decision. "We talked for a few hours afterward. I think he already knew," Louise said with as much reassurance as she could muster. "After you got rescued, it became pretty obvious to both of us that things between you and John were heading south."

"I shouldn't have let things get as far as they did," Mary Jane said sadly. "God knows he certainly gave me enough openings to bail out. I was just so confused at the time . . . I really didn't know what I wanted."

"He understands, M.J., believe me."

"I hope we can still be friends."

"I think he'd like that." Louise responded, smiling slightly.

Mary Jane noticed the smile. "Any chance the two of you could hook up?" she inquired hopefully.

Louise hesitated for a moment. "I don't know," she said wistfully. "He sort of hinted that he'd like to see me again, but . . ."

"But what?"

"Well, I've never had a good track record with guys on the rebound. And, to tell you the truth, I'm not that crazy about his line of work."

Mary Jane smiled, feeling that it was finally safe to let her true feelings about John's profession be known. "Neither was I," she admitted.

"He did call me last night, though," Louise continued. "He wanted to make sure that I wasn't caught in the subway. You heard about that terrorist attack, didn't you?"

"Of course," Mary Jane answered. "It was unbelievable. I hate to think of where we'd all be right now if it weren't for Spider-Man and Daredevil."

Louise nodded her head in agreement. "So now New York has two super. . ." She suddenly went silent, staring intently at Mary Jane for a few seconds, looking as though she was rapidly solving a very complicated puzzle. Mary Jane instinctively braced for what was coming next, silently kicking herself for underestimating Louise's perspicacity.

Looking around and lowering her head to make sure that she was not heard by anyone else, Louise whispered, "It's Spider-Man, isn't it?"

It was a perfectly logical question. After all, Louise and most of New York knew that Spider-Man had saved Mary Jane from Doc Ock. And it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that M.J. had probably fallen in love with her rescuer. But M.J. did not lose her composure. Peter was depending on her to guard his deepest, most precious secret, and she could not let him down under any circumstances. This was her first big test, and she was ready for it.

Without hesitating, M.J. threw back her head and laughed. "Don't I wish!" she giggled. "Spider-Man will rescue anyone who's in trouble. I can't imagine that he'd ever have time for girls. No, no. My guy is really quite ordinary." She laughed silently to herself, knowing full well how far from ordinary "her guy," really was.

Mary Jane could tell from Louise's body language that her friend had bought into her fib. "Silly me," Louise said a little sheepishly.

Inwardly, M.J. breathed a huge sigh of relief at having pulled it off. Keeping Peter's secret demanded an Oscar-caliber performance, and she did not disappoint. _Mary Jane Parker's stellar debut,_ she thought with a smile. For the first time, she truly understood what must have been going through Peter's mind as he was making up all those clumsy excuses. And she no longer had any misgivings about lying to people she was close to. She was in Peter's world now. And in Peter's world, such white lies were necessary to keep her family and friends out of danger. The more M.J. thought about it, the more she realized what a no-brainer it was. Anyone who discovered Spider-Man's identity became a target. Mary Jane had willingly assumed that risk. Louise had not. M.J. had no right to jeopardize her friend's life. It was as plain and simple as that, and she would not lose any more sleep over it. _Having Peter around will definitely improve my acting technique_, she thought wryly.

Meanwhile, a server brought them their bill. Mary Jane opened her purse, but Louise held up her hand. "My treat," she insisted, "In honor of your second and hopefully your last engagement."

M.J. beamed. Her friend's support meant a lot to her. "Thanks so much Louise. You're such a good friend."

"I'm so happy that things are finally working out for you, M.J. You deserve it."

They exited the café and stood on the street corner, waiting for the crossing signal.

" Hey, you want to walk for a while?" Louise suggested.

Mary Jane looked at her watch. She decided she had plenty of time before the show. "Okay."

"So, tell me a little more about your mystery man," Louise wanted to know as they strolled leisurely along Bleecker Street, not even noticing M.J.'s billboard overhead.

"I guess you could say he's the boy next door, literally. We've known each other since we were six. He's a sophomore at N.Y.U., pre-med, a real science wiz, with an IQ that's off the scale."

"Whew," Louise whistled, impressed. It didn't escape her notice how animated and radiant Mary Jane became when she started talking about her new boyfriend.

Mary Jane smiled as she recalled a pleasant memory from her high school days. "Our bedrooms were perfectly lined up across the alley between our houses. Every now and then, I'd peek into his window and see the Albert Einstein poster he had on his wall."

"Did he ever peek into your room?"

"I'm sure he did," Mary Jane blushed. "But I never caught him."

"How come you never mentioned him before?"

"We sort of went our separate ways after high school," Mary Jane answered. "He's working his way through college, holding down several jobs to support himself and his aunt, who's a widow."

"But you finally noticed each other at some point?"

"Yes. He's been in love with me for a long time. And to tell you the truth, for the last two years, I sort of felt the same way about him." M.J. smiled reminiscently.

"Then why did you accept John's proposal?" Louise asked, clearly perplexed.

"Because I didn't think he cared about me anymore. Plus, he was always so busy we never saw each other, and I assumed that he'd lost interest. It wasn't until he . . .until I was rescued . . . that I realized he loved me all along." Mary Jane's voice broke ever so slightly. It still bothered her to some extent that Peter would have let her go if she had not taken the initiative. "He didn't think we could be together because of all his responsibilities," . . . _like rescuing people from burning buildings, muggers, rapists, and terrorists_ . . . she added silently. "But I forced him to realize how much we both need each other."

That was enough to satisfy Louise's curiosity. "In all the time I've known you, Mary Jane, I think this is the first time that I've ever seen you really happy," she said warmly. "It's like night and day compared to how you were last week. Am I ever going to meet this mysterious Flying Dutchman of yours?"

"Well, he finishes school later this week. Maybe we can meet at a club or a lounge or something, and I can introduce you."

"I'm looking forward to it."

They bantered on for a while longer, mostly about Mary Jane's secret lover. Then Louise casually mentioned how relieved she and M.J.'s other cast mates from Earnest felt when they heard she was coming back for Tuesday evening's performance. While Rebecca Kitt was a talented and well-regarded actress, she did not have M.J.'s charismatic sparkle or her natural instincts for feeding her fellow performers their cues in ways that made them shine.

Mary Jane quickly glanced at her watch. "Louise, I've got to do a little grocery shopping before the show."

"Okay, M.J. See you tonight." Louise said as she hugged M.J. and congratulated her once again before they headed their separate ways. As Mary Jane was walking toward _Safeway_, she suddenly realized, much to her bemusement, that she had never told Louise Peter's name. _Mystery man, indeed!_ she thought.

Two hours later, Mary Jane arrived home lugging three large grocery bags. As soon as she opened the door, she caught sight of her caller ID flashing. Her heart started pounding as she picked up the phone and dialed into her voice mail message center. "_You have one new message_," the computerized voice messenger droned, "_from phone number 212 . . ._" She hit play before the voice could finish reciting the number. "_Hey M.J . . . It's Peter . . ."_ With a smile and a sigh, she replayed the message five times before finally returning Peter's call.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"Fifteen minutes to deadline and we still don't have page one!" Joe, "Robbie" Robertson shouted, sticking his head into his boss's office. Ted Hoffman, the _Daily Bugle_'s long-suffering advertising manager stood in his customary position, a few steps behind Robbie, nervous as always. The last three days had been miserable for J. Jonah Jameson, and hell for those unfortunate enough to be working for him.

"Not now!" Jameson barked out, the air in his office thick with cigar smoke. "I'm still talking to my son."

They were actually in the midst of a shouting match, the same one that had been going on since late Saturday night, when John had returned to his parents' house after taking Mary Jane's maid of honor home. He felt better after that long conversation he'd had with Louise. She helped him put things into perspective. He realized that there was one more person he needed to talk to before he could get closure and put the whole sordid episode behind him.

But no sooner did he walk in the door when his parents, his dad in particular, had started lacing into him. He cut them off sharply, telling them that he was too tired to talk about it any more.

John had spent Sunday and Monday personally returning all of the wedding gifts, calling as many of the guests as he could to apologize for having inconvenienced them. Everyone he spoke to offered their sympathies, and more than a few gently pointed out the pitfalls of getting involved with "artsy" types. He'd also called his flight commander at NASA and asked if he could return to duty right away. The commander was only too happy to oblige.

Now it was Tuesday evening, and John had his bags packed, ready to catch a flight back to Houston in a few hours. He had hoped to have a quiet dinner with his father before leaving, but the pressures of meeting the deadline and Jonah's inflexible attitude were making that less and less likely.

"You don't know that Dad!" John shouted, exasperated at having to go through the same conversation for the seventh time since Saturday.

"Pull your damn head out of the sand, John, and open up your eyes! Who else could it have been?"

"Even if it was him, what did you expect? He saved her life, twice!"

"The hell he did! It was a set up. . . .a set up, I tell you!" Jonah roared. "That weasly wall-crawler somehow ginned this whole thing up, just to make me look bad!"

"What?" John exclaimed, his mouth hanging open. This latest accusation against Spider-Man was a new low, even for his father. "Dad, you can't be serious."

"I've never been more serious in my life!" Jonah shouted back.

John was shocked. "How can you even _think_ that?"

"Very easily. Mary Jane admitted that Spider-Man saved her from the Goblin, right? They had to have been seeing each other ever since. So, what happens? Spider-Man tells that two-timing Mata Hari to get involved with you, get you to propose to her, and then jilt you at the last second. . . just to make a fool out of me in front of everyone that matters in this town! And I swear, he's going to answer for it."

John felt appalled that his father could actually believe that nonsense he was spouting, especially after Spider-Man had just saved the city from a massive terrorist attack. He was equally angry at his father's insinuation that he'd let himself be duped. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that M.J. was not the trickster that his dad was making her out to be, and that she really did care for him. But he understood that his father was frustrated because he couldn't punish Mary Jane.

"Jonah," Robbie Robertson pleaded, desperately trying to focus his boss's attention on the six o'clock deadline, now less than ten minutes away. Unlike John, Robbie was beyond shock, having been forced to listen to Jameson's latest and most outrageous conspiracy theory for the better part of three days. This sort of tirade was all too typical, Robbie reflected. When things went wrong for Jonah, he needed a scapegoat on which to vent his frustrations. And who better to fulfill that purpose than his favorite scapegoat, Spider-Man?

"Dad, I'm not even going to dignify that with a response," John snapped dismissively. "I know you mean well, but, godammit, lay off! You made a promise to me that you would leave Mary Jane and her boyfriend alone."

"Yes, I did, and I'll keep my promise as far as Mary Jane goes. But my problems with Spider-Man predate yours, and as long as Spider-Man's involved, I'm going to continue to do the job I need to do to wake this city up about that public menace. Understood?"

"You have no proof that it was Spider-Man!" John shouted, getting dangerously close to the boiling point.

But Jonah was on a roll. "I've got all the proof I need! I've been too damn easy on the slimy arachnid! He thinks he can put one past me, does he? I'll make him rue the day he ever showed his masked face in this city!"

John realized that this was as far as he was going to get and attempted to change the subject. "You want to go to _Sardi's_?" he asked his father, trying to cool him off.

"Can't!" Jonah snapped abruptly. He glanced up at Robbie and Hoffman, who were waiting impatiently to see him. "Page one. Spider-Man Involved in Terror Plot! How does that grab ya?"

John shook his head in disgust.

Ted Hoffman's face fell.

Robbie thought that he might need a hearing aid. "You're kidding, right?" he asked Jonah, incredulous.

Jameson glared at his number two.

"Jonah, you can't print that!" Robbie shouted when he realized that his boss was serious. "Didn't you see this morning's _Times_?" Before Jameson could answer, Robbie snatched the copy of the _New York Times_ that had been sitting on Betty Brant's desk and handed it to his boss. Spread across the front page was an article by Ben Urich entitled, **VIGILANTE HEROICS FOIL AL QAEDA ATTACK**. It was a measured, fact-based piece that accurately described how Spider-Man and Daredevil had uncovered the terrorist plot and neutralized a bunch of radiological devices scattered throughout the subways. As Jonah stared at his one-time collaborator's handiwork, his face turned deep red and the veins in his head and neck bulged out. Robbie and Hoffman braced themselves for the explosion that they knew was coming.

"I'll have that cop's badge!" Jonah bellowed, furious over the fact that Captain Manolis had given Ben Urich an exclusive while shutting out Eddie Brock. "I'll go all the way to the mayor's office! By the time I get done with that graft-grabber, he'll be a crossing guard at some elementary school!" With each word, he pounded the desk more vehemently.

Robbie and Hoffman exchanged glances, dismayed at their boss's overestimation of his influence at City Hall. To Robbie, who had known his editor for nearly fifty years, it seemed as though Jonah was losing touch with reality. Captain Manolis was one of the toughest, bravest, most honest, and most widely respected officers in the NYPD. Nobody was going to touch Manolis, least of all Jameson. He could complain to the White House, for all the good it would do him.

"Come on Jonah, you're talking nonsense," Robbie implored, desperately trying to dissuade Jameson from making a huge blunder. Ben Urich had set his profession's standard of integrity. To butt heads with Urich was like challenging Walter Cronkite; you didn't dare do it unless you had a mountain of facts to back you up, and Robbie knew the _Bugle_ did not. "If we go ahead with this, it will be a public relations disaster," Robbie warned. "I guarantee you that we'll lose whatever credibility we've got left. Spider-Man and Daredevil _saved_ the city dammit . . ."

"Don't talk to me about Daredevil!" Jonah interrupted sharply. "There is no Daredevil! That bald-headed bozo Urich made him up to throw everyone off his trail and out-scoop us on Spider-Man!"

Ted Hoffman, normally obsequious, often found the courage to speak up when the facts were on his side. "Uh . . . Chief . . . Ben Urich's been reporting on Daredevil for years. With that much smoke, there's got to be some fire."

But Jameson did not want to hear anything that contradicted his view of the world, or of Spider-Man. He brushed Hoffman off as though he were nothing more than an irritating fly. "Miss Brant!" he roared.

Betty's head shot up. "Yeah, boss?"

"Get Eddie up here fast!"

"Hold for a moment please," Betty said regretfully to a caller who she knew had been trying to get through for three hours. Dialing Eddie Brock's extension, Betty snapped, "Boss wants you," before hastening back to her long-suffering caller. Brock materialized in less than thirty seconds.

But Hoffman wasn't finished yet. He looked at Robbie, who gestured at him to continue. "The circulation figures are down another five percent," the mousy ex-accountant said in a hushed voice. "That makes a twenty-point drop from this point last quarter. Macy's, Microsoft, and Wachovia are all threatening to pull their ads. . ."

"I don't want to hear about that now!" snapped Jameson. "I've got more important things to worry about. And where the hell is Parker? Haven't seen him in days! Goofing off again when he should be bringing me pictures."

Robbie involuntary glanced back toward the door. "Um . . . Jonah, I think he's here." Jameson looked up in time to see Peter Parker, who had appeared as if from nowhere, hand something to Betty Brant, probably a request for another advance. "Parker!" Jonah shouted. "It's about time! Get in here! Got a job for you and Eddie." Although Jonah was looking straight at Peter, he failed to notice the young man's eyes widen as he entered the office.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Peter had just finished his second and last final examination of the day. Quantum mechanics had turned out to be a breeze, just like biochem. In what was fast becoming a routine for him, Peter Parker was once again the first person to finish his exam. He quietly handed his papers to the proctor and walked out of the test center, quite confident and relaxed about his performance.

On his way to the _Bugle_, his press pass in his pocket, Peter suddenly remembered a very important piece of business that Matt Murdock had urged him to take care of. "_Parker_," he said to himself in the voice he normally used for Spider-Man. _"You're no longer my photographer. I'm not letting anyone take any more pictures of me. Ever._"

"_Oh, please Spider-Man, give me another chance,"_ he laughed softly in his own voice. He smiled at the sweet irony of one of his selves giving the other the boot. It was a huge burden off his back. A week ago, he'd been alone and broke. Now, he had the girl of his dreams and two jobs that, together, would pay him ten times the measly handouts that Jonah had been giving him. He would never again have to prostitute himself to pay his bills.

He also had a very powerful ally. With Matt Murdock as his attorney, he was no longer afraid of telling Mr. Jameson the truth about himself and Mary Jane. After so much suffering and hardship, Peter Parker's fortunes were finally turning the corner.

"Hi Peter," Betty greeted him as he the elevator door opened. He hadn't gone two steps when Eddie Brock flew past him toward Jameson's office. There would have been a collision if Peter had not wisely stepped out of the way.

"Hi Betty," Peter said warmly. He'd always liked Betty Brant. She and Robbie Robertson were always good to him, even when Jameson was putting him down. On the other hand, he detested Eddie Brock, who made no secret of either his ambition to one day run the _Bugle_, or his contempt for Peter Parker. Peter had just fished his press pass out of his pocket and was about to hand it to Betty when he heard Jameson summon him with his customary holler. Still holding his badge, Peter confidently strolled toward his soon-to-be-former boss's office, his resignation speech ready. All of a sudden, his eyes locked on a strikingly handsome young man in an Air Force uniform.

"Where the hell have you been?" Jameson barked as Peter fell in line next to Ted Hoffman. "Been trying to get in touch with you since Saturday. You better have some pictures for me or you'll be cleaning the men's room!"

"Sorry Mr. Jameson," Peter said quietly, "But Spider-Man won't let me take any more pictures after what happened yesterday. He says it's too dangerous."

"Oh really?" Jameson sneered. "Well, we're just going to have to find him, that's all. I'm teaming you up with Brock here. You two are going on a stakeout, every day and every night, until you bring back pictures of that webslinging weasel and his flaky little tart girlfriend!"

"Dad!" John snapped angrily. "Enough!"

But Jameson went on as if his son wasn't even there. "And I'll give you a thousand dollars each if you catch them making out on a rooftop!" Brock started salivating at the prospect of a nice fat bonus for a short night's work.

The only visible signs of Peter's fury at Jonah's rude remarks about his fiancée were a brief flaring of his nostrils and a narrowing of his eyes. More than anything, Peter wished he could web up Jonah's big mouth, like he did during the Goblin's attack. He quickly reigned in his temper, knowing that it was time to play his trump card and put out this fire before it got out of control.

"Spider-Man had nothing to do with Mary Jane's decision," Peter said resolutely. "It was m . . ."

"DAD!" John shouted even louder, cutting Peter off sharply before he could finish the sentence. "I said drop it!" It was enough to make Jonah jolt in his chair, as if he'd been electrocuted.

Peter briefly glanced at John, who seemed to be staring at him intensely, an expression of comprehension playing across his features. _Did John just run interference for me?_ Peter wondered anxiously. _Does he know?_ Jonah, meanwhile, remained completely oblivious to the silent exchange between his son and his soon-to-be former photographer. Peter had recognized the opening John had apparently given him, and decided that retreat was the better part of valor. He tossed his press badge across Jameson's desk.

"Just what do you think you're doing, Parker?" Jonah demanded, already recovering from his son's harsh reprimand.

"Quitting, Mr. Jameson," Peter retorted.

"You can't quit! We have an exclusive deal! So help me, if you go to another paper, I'll sue your little keister off! You'll never work in this city again."

In truth, there was no exclusive deal. That was just more of Jameson's bluster. "I have a new job with the law firm of Nelson and Murdock." Peter said with a quiet but firm resolve. It was a veiled warning. Jameson had gotten the message. He opened his mouth to yell at Peter again, but quickly thought the better of it. Apparently, Matt Murdock was one of the few people in New York City who was genuinely capable of striking fear into J. Jonah Jameson's heart.

Just before Peter turned toward the door, he said, "Oh, and by the way, Mr. Jameson, Spider-Man told me to tell you that he might allow one more picture if you donate a hundred thousand dollars to the 9-11 Victims' Memorial Fund." He struggled to keep a smirk off his face as he made his way toward the elevator, leaving Jonah to stew in his own juice. On his way out, he received a handshake from an astonished Robbie Robertson and a hug from an equally shocked Betty Brant. It was plain from the expressions on their faces that Peter's attempt to confess to the Jamesons had not been lost on them.

"Good luck Pete," Betty said as she embraced Peter. And then she whispered in his ear, very, very softly, "Way to go!"

"We'll miss you, kid," Robbie said as he shook Peter's hand. He had liked Peter since the day he first showed up with his Spider-Man photos, and had grown even more fond of him over the last eighteen months. _Didn't think this guy had that kind of gumption_, he thought admiringly. "Don't lose touch."

"Don't worry Robbie, I won't," Peter said with a small smile. "Thanks." . . . _for thinking about me_ . . .

Just before Peter stepped on to the elevator, John Jameson called out, "Can you hold it for me?"

Robbie watched Peter go, wondering how the _Bugle_ was going to fare, now that there wouldn't be any more fodder for Jonah's editorial cannon. A moment later, he had his answer.

"Robbie!" Jonah barked furiously. "Get that lead story out, now!"

"Look Jonah," Robbie begged futilely, "Can't we at least make the headline a question? John is absolutely right. We have no proof."

"Leave my son out of this!" Jameson growled. "And, no. The headline goes out exactly as I said. By this time tomorrow, the whole city will realize that Spider-Man rigged the whole thing." He puffed on his cigar, still extremely confident of the righteousness of his cause and the ignorance of everyone who questioned him.

Robbie had reached the end of his tether. To accuse Spider-Man of being in league with terrorists went way beyond the pale. Sure, a headline like that would pull the _Bugle_ out of the red ink for the quarter, but it was the cheapest of cheap shots, and he just couldn't stomach it anymore. Spider-Man deserved a ticker-tape parade, not this constant, unrelenting haranguing and ridicule. And so, after nearly fifty years of friendship and professional association with J. Jonah Jameson, Joe Robertson came to a momentous decision. He quickly walked back to his corner office two floors below. Closing the door, he opened his cell phone and dialed the number of his closest and dearest friend.

"Hey, Robbie, what's up?" Ben Urich answered.

"Ben, we have to talk," Robbie said grimly.

Ben Urich had a hunch as to what Robbie was calling him about. "I'm having dinner with Bob Cramer at _Mama Leone_'s tonight at 8:00. Think you can join us?"

"Yeah. See you then. By the way, that was a helluva piece you did on the terrorist attack yesterday."

"Thanks." Urich responded. "Look for us at our regular table."

"Sure thing. Bye."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Peter felt incredibly awkward just being in an elevator with M.J.'s ex, let alone having to make conversation with him. The same woman who was Peter's source of happiness was John's source of sorrow. Yet, oddly enough, Peter's spider-sense was not registering any kind of alarm. It was more his own nervousness. Still, it took a considerable effort on his part to make eye contact with John.

"Um . . . I have a few hours to kill before my flight," John said tentatively. "I was wondering if we could talk for a little bit."

"I'm sorry, but I don't have much time," Peter answered as politely as he could, "I have a final exam coming up tomorrow morning and I really need to get home."

"I understand that," John said, a slight hint of agitation in his normally unflappable demeanor. "But I really need to know something. It won't take more than a few minutes, I promise."

Peter wanted nothing more than to hightail it out of there as soon as possible. But the desperation in John's voice was plainly palpable. John had just been through a terrible ordeal. He needed to gain some closure so that he could move on. Having John vent his anger on him was a price Peter was willing to endure for having the love of his life in his life.

"Okay," Peter finally assented. "But I really can't take too long."

"Thank you Peter. I really appreciate it," a grateful John Jameson replied.

The elevator had reached the lobby. John led them to the small bar just inside the building's main entrance. There were only a handful of other patrons, even though it was the height of happy hour. They quickly sat down at a window table that afforded them a great view of Times Square.

"Can I get you something to drink?" John asked politely, as their server approached.

At first, Peter was inclined to say no, but then he relented. _Might as well get a free drink out of this_, he thought. "Can I have a virgin screwdriver?"

"What's that?" John asked, puzzled.

"Orange juice, with seltzer instead of vodka." Peter was usually cautious about drinking alcohol, since he never knew when he'd be facing an emergency.

"Two virgin screwdrivers." With the drinks ordered, John turned to face his rival.

"Peter, I have a pretty good idea of what it's like to work for my dad. But let me say in his defense that he was always a devoted, caring parent. For instance, he always insisted that I know my American history inside and out. He used to drill me constantly at the dinner table, making me spit out facts and figures as fast as I spat out my spinach. By the time I finished high school, I knew the names and dates of every important historical event since the Revolutionary War." He paused briefly, as if trying to gauge Peter's reaction. "Do you know what's coming up in July?"

Peter shrugged his shoulders, unsure of where John was leading him. "The Fourth of July?" he guessed.

"Yes, but I was actually thinking of July Eleventh." John answered. "That's the two-hundredth anniversary of the Burr-Hamilton duel. It took place right across the river, over there in Weehawken." He pointed toward New Jersey. Peter knew instinctively what was coming next. "If this were 1804 instead of 2004, I might have challenged you to a duel on those same grounds."

Peter remained silent and impassive, waiting for John to rip into him. He couldn't blame John for that. He vividly remembered the despair he'd felt when John and Mary Jane had announced their engagement at the planetarium, right in front of him. That John would feel the same way now would not have surprised him in the least.

Suddenly, the conversation took an unexpected turn. "On the other hand, you might have been equally justified in demanding satisfaction from me." John leaned a little closer. "You love Mary Jane, don't you?" he pointedly asked Peter.

"I've always loved her."

"Long before I ever met her, is that correct?"

"Uh-huh," Peter murmured.

"Then for God's sake, why did you wait so long to tell her?" John asked, the cracking in his voice betraying a potpourri of emotions roiling beneath the surface of his outwardly calm disposition. "You could've saved everyone a ton of grief and settled this whole thing before M.J. and I got serious."

Peter felt his spider-sense start to tingle slightly. "It's . . . very hard to explain." he said, groping for words that wouldn't arouse undue suspicion from John. "My life is complicated."

"Were you afraid she might get hurt?" John asked in a slightly hushed voice.

_He does know_, Peter realized, tensing up as his mind starting to race. Was he that obvious? And who else knew? Robbie? Ben Urich? For Christ's sake, he'd been having lunch with Ben every week for over a year. Was Ben just stringing him along all this time, waiting for the right moment to drop the bombshell? The implications were frightening. For an instant, Peter worried that John could hear his heart beating the way Matt Murdock could. He decided to tough it out and not concede anything. He would just have to deflect John's suspicions as best he could. "I've got a lot of responsibilities now," Peter replied neutrally. "Between work, school, and a very tight budget . . . I really didn't think I could give M.J.what she needed to be happy . . . the way you could."

"I've got news for you, Peter," John went on. "I'm not really sure that M.J. ever _was_ truly happy to be with me. This may surprise you, but I've suspected for weeks now that whatever I thought we had was petering out, no pun intended. The fact is that the Mary Jane Watson that I'd fallen in love with, that beautiful, mysterious, slightly ditsy redhead is gone. I never saw that person again after M.J. was rescued from Doc Ock. To be honest, I'm not even sure if she ever really existed." He paused again, waiting for Peter's reaction, but Peter just listened silently.

"Um . . . Peter . . . What I'm trying to say is that if I had known, if I had gotten any inkling at all that there was something between the two of you, I would never have gotten involved with Mary Jane in the first place. To tell you the truth, I had a feeling that she might've been pushing the wedding just to get over an ex-boyfriend, and maybe I should've been more direct about it. But I was afraid to speak up because I thought I might lose her if I did . . ." John's voice was starting to break again, and moisture was beginning to form at the corners of his eyes.

Seeing the heavy emotional toll that the break-up had exacted on John, Peter couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for him. Having narrowly missed losing M.J. himself, he understood all to well what the man was going through. That dreadful night at the planetarium once again welled up from deep inside his memory. He could never forget how devastated he felt watching John in all his glamor and glory stand up at that podium and proudly announce to the whole world that Mary Jane had agreed to marry him. It had affected him so profoundly that he'd actually lost his powers over it. And now, he felt no sense of triumph, not even a hollow victory. Instead, he felt guilty that his rejection of Mary Jane in the cemetery that cold November morning had set in motion the chain of events that led to this meeting. John had played the game by the rules and now was forced to watch the prize be snatched away from him at the last moment.

"John," Peter gently interrupted, "You don't have to justify anything to me. You were there for M.J. when she needed somebody. You had good times together, and you obviously still care about her a great deal. I can't fault you for that. I'm really sorry that you got caught in the middle, believe me."

"I appreciate that Peter, very much," John continued sadly, his eyes downcast. "But I would be lying to you if I told you that I'll get over Mary Jane anytime soon. The reality is that M.J.'s heart belongs to you. I suppose it always has. All I can do now is accept her decision and live with it." He reached into the breast pocket of his uniform and pulled out an official looking document. It was a marriage license. "Here, take this," he said, extending it to Peter. "I won't stand in your way. And I promise you that I'll do my best to keep my dad off your backs. All I ask in return is that you keep her safe."

Peter smiled. "Count on it," he promised firmly as he took the license. He offered his hand.

John shook it. He seemed slightly taken aback by Peter's powerful grip. But he still managed to look Peter directly in the eye. "I want you to know something," he said softly. "I don't care what my dad says. You are a hero." And with that, John Jameson paid for their drinks, got up, and left, having finally attained the closure he was looking for.

Peter sat at the table for a few more minutes, staring meditatively through the windows at the busy intersection called Times Square as he tried to sort out his feelings. John was a class act, through and through. His graciousness in defeat and acknowledgment of Peter's good deeds had raised his stock considerably in Peter's estimation. Peter did not bother trying to figure out how John discovered his secret. Nor did he worry about it. John seemed honorable and sincere enough to be taken at his word. But Peter still felt bad that John had to suffer the indignity of being stood up at his own wedding. _Why the hell can't I have a little bit of joy without someone getting hurt?_ he mused unhappily. _No one should ever have to go through a thing like that._

Suddenly his spider-sense kicked in. Instantly, he was alert to possible danger, but for some reason, he couldn't lock onto it. His eyes soon caught sight of the television set suspended above the bar. The local news was broadcasting images of what looked like a tenement fire. Pushing back his chair abruptly, he rushed over to the bar and turned up the volume. Sure enough, it was a three-alarm fire on 131st street, up in Harlem. It was over a hundred blocks away.

"Hey!" the surly bartender shouted "you wanna turn that TV down!" But there was no one there.

"Asshole," the bartender muttered as he cut the volume and went back to mixing the fifth scotch and soda for the customer at Table 8.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

When Robbie arrived at _Mama Leone's_, Ben Urich was already waiting for him. Sitting next to Ben was a distinguished-looking gentleman with iron-gray hair whose name was well-known in media circles. He was Robert G. Cramer, chairman and CEO of _Lorelei Communications, Inc._, the largest and most powerful media conglomerate in the world. Cramer and Ben Urich had grown up together in Brooklyn, and had remained intimate friends despite Cramer's attainment of extraordinary wealth and influence.

While Ben was studying journalism at Fordham, Cramer had been laying the foundations for an investment empire. In his first big deal, Cramer bought the _Bugle_, then little more than a Greenwich Village community newspaper. He hired Ben and Robbie right out of college. Jonah came aboard the following year. The rest was history. With hard-hitting, no-holds barred reporting, the _Bugle_ became the voice of the entire progressive movement of the late sixties and early seventies, winning multiple Pulitzer Prizes. Jonah, Ben, and Robbie became known throughout the city as "the Three Musketeers."

Eventually, Cramer sold the _Bugle_ to a group of outside investors and moved on to build _Lorelei_. A few years later, Jameson bought it and became its managing editor. It soon became apparent, however, that Jonah had his own idea about the direction the paper should take. Unfortunately, it turned out to be radically different than Cramer's. Under Jameson, the _Bugle_ the made more money than it ever had before, but it had done so by exploiting the lowest common denominator with cheap sensationalism. Ben Urich had eventually had enough of Jonah's antics and resigned in disgust. Robbie, on the other hand, had stayed on, fervently believing that Jonah would eventually see the light and return the _Bugle_ to the glory it had enjoyed under Bob Cramer's stewardship.

Ben and Bob both stood up to greet Robbie cheerfully as he made his way over to the table. It was a reunion of old friends from the great old days.

"How are you, Mr. Cramer?" Robbie asked respectfully. He was always formal with Bob, despite knowing him well for over forty years.

"Come on, Robbie, when are you going to cut out that Mr. Cramer crap and just call me Bob?"

"When I'm as rich as you are." Robbie retorted. They all laughed.

Ben had already taken the liberty of ordering three Molson Golden Ales. "Things aren't looking too good right now in _Bugleville_," Robbie confided as the men sat down and picked up their menus. "Circulation's dropping, and advertisers are pulling out right and left." He turned to Ben. "Your article on the terrorist attack really pissed Jonah off."

"Nice to know he still cares," Urich deadpanned sarcastically.

Robbie paused for a moment, suddenly remembering one of the most significant events of the day. "Oh, and Peter Parker quit today. Claims that Spider-Man won't let him take any more pictures."

"Sounds like it was long overdue," Ben replied while scanning his menu. "You know, the _Times Magazine_ needs a freelance photographer. I think I'll ask him about it when I meet him for lunch tomorrow."

"He says he's already got a new job," Robbie went on, miffed at Jonah's idiocy in letting Peter slip away.

"Any idea with who?" Ben asked.

"Nelson and Murdock. Those blind lawyers from Hell's Kitchen who sued our asses off for libel a few years back."

"Only one of them is blind." Ben corrected Robbie as he raised his eyebrows. _Interesting_, he thought, _Peter gets canned by Spider-Man and picked up by Daredevil._ "Well, there's no harm in asking him to at least consider it."

"Anyway," Robbie continued, "Jonah still won't admit that he made a mistake in not pursuing all those leads about the Kingpin. No offense Ben, but that story should have been ours."

"I would've loved to have written it for the _Bugle_."

Robbie grimaced, still furious over Jonah's latest scheme to smear Spider-Man. "On top of that, he's gone Ahab over his son's ex-fiancée, that Watson girl." He paused. "And if he keeps up this anti-Spider-Man crusade, he'll take the _Bugle_ down with him. Do you know what's gonna be on page one tomorrow morning?" he asked in a subdued voice.

"I can only imagine," Urich replied.

"He's going to publicly accuse Spider-Man of being in cahoots with Al Qaeda. It's already gone to press. By tomorrow afternoon, the whole city's going to be laughing at us. Jonah's been holding us all captive to some bizarre personal agenda that I still haven't been able to figure out. And now it's coming home to roost."

Ben looked at Robbie in disbelief. While not a cynic, Urich was certainly battle-hardened. After forty years in the business, there was very little that could phase him. But even he could not believe that Jonah could be so crass in his drive to sell newspapers. And he had never seen Robbie so bitter in all the years that they'd known each other.

"Why doesn't your board step in and do something?" Cramer interjected.

"Everyone you knew is long gone," Robbie replied regretfully. "The people on the board now are all his handpicked cronies. They're all afraid of him. They won't lift a finger except to rearrange the deck chairs."

"I've told you before Robbie, the managing editor's job at _Weekly World News Update_ is still open." Cramer hinted. "You know I haven't rescinded my offer."

"Thanks Mr Cr . . . Bob. Please don't be offended, but I'm really not interested. You guys may think I'm crazy, but I still think of the _Bugle_ as our legacy. In my heart of hearts, I just can't leave her until I can have confidence that she's back on the right track."

"That'll never happen as long as Jameson is in charge," Urich said bluntly. "And as long as that board kowtows to him, you'll never be able to get rid of him."

"That's what I want to talk to you guys about." Robbie took a deep breath and turned to Bob Cramer. "Can _Lorelei_ buy us out?"

Urich and Cramer put down their menus and looked up at him, astonished. Despite all of the friction between Robbie and Jonah, they were still good friends personally. To Ben Urich, the idea that Robbie would go behind Jonah's back would have been unthinkable. But then, Robbie made his feelings clear and left no doubt about the course of action he was committed to. For almost two years, he had steadfastly, but futilely opposed J. Jonah Jameson's efforts to malign and discredit an extraordinary human being who laid his life on the line every day without ever asking for anything in return. But no matter what Spider-Man did, Jonah always managed to twist his heroic deed around and wring some nefarious motivation out of it. The Al Qaeda headline was absolutely the last straw. "I've had it Ben," Robbie said angrily. "The _Bugle_'s a laughingstock. Nobody takes us seriously anymore. The public's already bailing out on us, and it won't be long before our stockholders follow suit."

Neither Urich nor Cramer said anything for almost thirty seconds. Then Cramer broke the ice.

"What exactly do you have in mind, Robbie?" he asked tentatively.

"Hostile takeover," Robbie replied quietly, almost whispering the words.

Cramer remained impassive. Like the fine poker player he was, he had long since learned how to conceal his emotions when evaluating business proposals. Unbeknownst to his companions, however, he had already reached that same conclusion for his own reasons. He appeared hesitant, not because he was deciding whether to do it, but rather how. "I'll have to talk to my backers overseas and see what they say about it. The _Bugle_ is, how shall we say it, not exactly in the same league as a typical _Lorelei_ publication. . ."

"When you owned the _Bugle_, we had a reputation for integrity bar none," Urich said forcefully. He too looked back upon their "Musketeer" days with fondness and nostalgia. "The only way that reputation could be restored is for Jameson to step aside or be thrown out. Frankly, I don't give a damn which it is."

"We'll just have to sell my backers on the idea that once we take over, we can make the _Bugle_ a serious newspaper again." Cramer said, pondering his course of action very carefully. He preferred to invest in innovative companies whose stock prices would shoot up once their new ideas hit the market. From a business standpoint, the _Bugle_ was not a good investment because it was already established. Its stock price was already too high.

But to Bob Cramer, this was not a business decision. "Guys," he said to Ben and Robbie, "I haven't told anybody about this, but my daughter and baby grandson were on that train."

Cramer was immediately confronted with puzzled looks from his two dinner companions.

"Which train?" Urich asked.

"The one that Spider-Man kept from plunging into the river." Cramer replied. "My daughter helped put his mask back on when it came off."

Ben and Robbie exchanged incredulous looks. "You mean, your daughter . . . saw him?" Robbie practically choked.

Cramer nodded. "She told me that everyone who saw Spider-Man's face that day agreed to take a vow of silence." He looked up, as determined as Robbie to do the right thing, regardless of what it might cost. "Spider-Man saved the lives of my daughter and my grandson. I agree with you one hundred percent, Robbie. I think it's high time that we put an end to J. Jonah Jameson's misguided crusade."

Robbie felt vindicated. How ironic that the object of Jonah's smear campaigns was going to be the inspiration for his downfall.

"But it's going to take time and a lot of delicate maneuvering," Cramer continued cautiously. We'll need to adopt a stealth strategy . . . buy enough stock to achieve majority control, and then . . . boom! He's out on his ass!"

"How long will it take?" Ben asked.

"At least a year," Cramer said, "maybe longer, depending on how fast we can get our people on the board. And . . ."

"And what?" Robbie asked.

"I have two other conditions."

"Name them."

"That you, Robbie, replace Jameson as the _Bugle_'s editor-at-large. And Ben, I want you to take over as city editor." Urich started to say something, but, anticipating his protest that he was not management material, Cramer deployed that mixture of flattery and bluntness that made him a world-class negotiator. "You're a phenomenal reporter Ben, a legend. But you're not immortal. For the _Bugle_ to have sustained success in the future, it's vitally important that we prepare the next generation of Ben Urichs. You're the only one who could do it."

Urich's expression did not change. "Does this mean I have to move into an office?" he grumbled mockingly.

"Yes," Cramer replied as their ales arrived. "Now gentlemen, if those terms are agreeable to both of you, then let's have a drink."

"Here's to it," the three old friends chorused as they raised their bottles of Molsons and clanged them together in an informal ceremonial toast.


	16. Two Secrets for the Price of One

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**_Park's_ is a reference to Rosa Parks, the great civil rights pioneer who passed away on October 24, 2005.**

**The Japanese busker's ditty is the theme song from the "_'67 Series_," the first televised Spider-Man cartoon. The series ran from 1967 to 1970. _Spider-Man_, Music by Bob Harris, Lyrics by Paul Francis Webster, © 1967 by Bhudda Music, Inc., All rights reserved. **

**The idea to use the street musician was inspired by Betty Brant's _Excuses, Excuses_. Thank you, Betty.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XVI**

**TWO SECRETS FOR THE PRICE OF ONE**

"_On the contrary, Aunt Augusta, I've now realized for the first time in my life, the vital Importance of Being Earnest_!" the Jack Worthing character proudly proclaimed in the play's closing line. For the second night in a row, the packed house went wild as the curtain fell, rising to their feet and bursting into sustained applause, the loudest and longest for the red-haired actress playing Cecily Cardew.

As they had done after the previous evening's performance, Mary Jane's fellow cast-members stopped by the dressing room she and Louise shared to congratulate her. Even the perpetually frantic Robin Kelly gave M.J. a thumbs up, something he rarely did. "Keep it up and we'll go on forever!" he gushed.

"Thanks guys," Mary Jane said modestly, feeling embarrassed over all the praise that was being lavished upon her, yet thrilled at her dream finally coming true. She was still at the beginning of her professional journey and knew that there was lots of room for improvement. They were right about one thing though. In the six months or so that she had been doing this show, she had never come to life like she had during these last two performances. From the moment she took the stage at the beginning of Act II, she radiated charm and charisma. It was truly as if the protective outer veneer she'd been wearing all her life had been stripped away, revealing her soul to the public for the very first time. _If they only knew_, she mused as she reflected on the reason for her stunning success since returning to the production.

It was pouring rain outside, so the autograph seekers who normally congregated near the stage door outside were crowding into the Lyric's small but ornate lobby. Like most beginning actresses, Mary Jane gladly accepted the chore of signing playbills. No sooner had she plunged into the task when she heard a familiar voice call out, "Mary Jane! Over here!" M.J. looked up and smiled when she spotted Liz Allen, her old chum from Midtown High, waving at her. Liz had slimmed down considerably since high school. She had long since lost the braces and had traded in those awful eyeglasses for contact lenses that accentuated her bright blue eyes. And her hair, once as wiry as a brillo pad, was now neatly coiffed.

Mary Jane was delighted that her old friend could make it out to see her in her moment of triumph. She continued to sign every playbill shoved at her even as she slowly edged her way over to where Liz was standing. While on stage, she had noticed that Liz was sitting in one of the front-row center seats normally occupied by the theater's owners. During the scene in which Cecily scolds Algernon about the hypocrisy of leading a double life, M.J. had cast a quick glance in Liz's direction, subtly acknowledging her presence.

Although Liz had brought Flash Thompson to the wedding, he was not with her this evening. In his stead was a beaming, dark-haired, portly man who appeared to be considerably older, probably in his mid thirties. He reminded Mary Jane somewhat of a great big teddy bear. Standing slightly behind them was another couple, a pretty blonde with a shapely figure and an extraordinarily handsome blind gentleman wearing very dark sunglasses and carrying a silver and red cane. Mary Jane couldn't help but notice the odd-looking emblems on its handle: an angel's face on one side and a devil's face on the other.

"Wow!" Liz greeted M.J. breathlessly, "That was some show. You got star written all over you."

"From your mouth to God's ear," laughed Mary Jane as they hugged, "Or at least an agent's."

"You're in luck, M.J." Liz said as she turned toward the man she was with. "This is Fra . . ." But before Liz could finish her introduction, the big teddy bear who was with her eagerly thrust his hand toward Mary Jane.

"Hi. Franklin Nelson," the teddy bear said enthusiastically. "That was one helluva show you guys put on!"

"Mary Jane Watson," M.J. replied with a handshake and a bright smile that belied her feeling of being a bit overwhelmed in the presence of Liz's extroverted gentleman friend. "Glad you liked it."

"My partner, Matt Murdock," Foggy said, nodding in the blind man's direction.

"Nice to meet you, Matt Murdock," Mary Jane responded pleasantly, thinking that this man could give her former fiancé a run for his money in the looks department.

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Watson," Matt responded with a polite smoothness as he extended his hand toward her, knowing right away who she was.

"And this gorgeous lady is Karen Page, our secretary." Foggy broke in, gesturing toward the perky blonde.

"Office manager, thank you very much," Karen corrected good-naturedly as she shook Mary Jane's hand. "That was a really wonderful show. You were great."

"That's really nice of you to say, Karen," Mary Jane replied as she continued to bask in the glow of her accomplishment. Turning back to Liz, she asked, "have you guys known each other long?"

"Franklin and I met at a salsa dance club two weeks ago," Liz explained. "He and Matt are lawyers. We're celebrating a big immigration case they won the other day."

"Then, you and Flash aren't dating?"

"Oh no," laughed Liz. "We never were. We've been friends since graduation. I asked him to be my escort to your wedding before I met Franklin."

_Well, that certainly clears up that mystery_, Mary Jane thought. "So, how did you get tickets on such short notice?" she asked, knowing that performances had been booking up at least a month in advance.

"It was a spur-of-the-moment thing," Liz answered cheerfully, "One of Franklin's clients owns this theater. He gave us his seats for free, to pay his bills, you know."

"Bobby was short on cash, like most of our clients," Foggy bantered. "We're probably the only attorneys in town who still barter."

"Don't knock it," Matt gently retorted. "We were treated to a very fine performance this evening, which I think was worth twice what we charged him." Suddenly, he detected a mild flutter in Mary Jane's heartbeat, a subtle reaction that, to him, signaled recognition.

"Have we met before, Mr. Murdock?" Mary Jane queried, a little perplexed.

"I don't believe so," he responded in a measured voice, not wanting to let on about the circumstances of their previous encounter. "Why do you ask?"

Mary Jane shook her head, trying to jar her memory. "Your voice sounds very familiar. Are you one of those legal experts on T.V.?"

"Well, I was interviewed on _Twenty-Twenty_ a few years ago," Matt responded, wondering if she had any inkling of the truth. "Barbara Walters was doing a feature on disabled lawyers. Perhaps you caught it?"

"I must've missed that one," Mary Jane said with a puzzled frown. _Who is this guy?_ she asked herself. There was something so familiar about the man, but for the life of her, she couldn't pinpoint it. Desiring to keep the conversation going in the hopes of triggering her recollection, she inquired, "What kind of law do you practice?"

"I chase ambulances," Matt replied with a modest smile.

Mary Jane giggled mellifluously at Matt's humorous exaggeration of a common stereotype associated with lawyers. She mentally drew a caricature of a blind lawyer running after an ambulance, holding a briefcase in one hand and shaking his other fist in an in impotent rage. She answered his one-liner with one of her own. "Ever caught one?" she asked with a cheeky smile.

"Still trying," he said lightly. "Seriously, though, most of what we do involves corporate malfeasance and criminal defense. Basically, we try protect the rights of the little guys, people who normally can't help themselves."

"Do you go to court a lot?" M.J. asked.

"All the time."

M.J. was amazed. "It must be hard," she said sympathetically.

"What?"

"Having to argue in court when you're bli . . .er . . . visually challenged."

Matt smiled again, putting M.J. at ease with his easy-going manner. "Blind is not a four-letter word, Miss Watson. It's okay to say it. And actually, the hardest thing for me was learning braille. Everything else came fairly easily." Matt paused briefly, and then added. "When I'm in court, I sometimes think of myself as being on stage."

"I can relate to that," Mary Jane responded with her own smile. "I hope you were able to enjoy the show."

"I did, very much." Matt was touched that Mary Jane had thought to comment, and answered her implicit question. "I experienced it like one of those old-time radio shows." Of course, Mary Jane had no way of knowing that he was able to "see" the play as well as hear it. For him, the performers were shadows dancing in and out of a luminescent blue fog.

Liz, Foggy, and Karen, meanwhile, were talking animatedly amongst themselves. Suddenly, the proverbial bulb lit up inside Liz's head. "You know, M.J., after what happened last Saturday, you just might need an attorney."

"My God, that's right! Foggy exclaimed. Without thinking, he asked Mary Jane point blank, "You're the one who jilted Jonah Jameson's kid, aren't you?"

Several faces in the now-smaller crowd turned to stare at Mary Jane, who faltered for a moment as a wave of embarrassment washed over her. She saw Matt Murdock wince and lower his head into his free hand, looking a bit like a father whose child had just made a foolish spectacle of himself.

"Franklin!" Liz scolded testily, dismayed at her date's mildly annoying habit of saying whatever popped into his mind without thinking.

"Oh, man!" Foggy gasped, his face turning red as he realized the spot he had unwittingly put M.J. on. "I'm sorry, Mary Jane. I didn't mean to . . ."

Mary Jane shrugged her slender shoulders and gave Foggy a wry smile. "It's all right," she said, deftly handling the situation. "It's not much of a secret anymore, and it's probably helping ticket sales." Unlike Liz, M.J. was finding Foggy's awkwardness to be rather endearing. It reminded her a little of Peter. "Do you have a card?" she asked Foggy, hoping to reduce his anxiety a few notches.

The socially challenged attorney fumbled through his wallet, fished out his card, and handed it to Mary Jane, who took it automatically. "Listen," he said, regaining his confidence, "if Jameson gives you any trouble, call us right away. We nailed the _Bugle_ for libel, twice."

Notwithstanding Foggy's gaffe, Mary Jane was very pleased with his generous offer of legal help. Her former beau had once told her that his father had lost only two lawsuits, but had to pay seven figures in damages on both occasions. These guys must have been the plaintiffs' attorneys, she realized with dawning respect, knowing that they _had_ to be good if they could beat Jonah Jameson even once, let alone twice. Putting Foggy's card in her purse, M.J. said in a muted voice, "I'm hoping it won't come to that, but if it does, I'll be sure to get in touch with you guys."

Matt had been quietly observing Mary Jane the whole time, mainly out of curiosity. Her quick wit, her innate concern for others, and her lack of pretense impressed him, especially when she so graciously spared Foggy the usually embarrassing consequences of his slip-ups. _No wonder Peter is so in love with her_, he thought, wishing he could have asked her to stand in the rain, so that he could see the face that went with that charming and engaging personality.

Louise, meanwhile had wandered over to join Mary Jane, now that the number of autograph hounds had dwindled. Mary Jane flashed her a welcoming smile.

"Liz, you remember Louise Wood, my maid of honor, don't you?" Mary Jane asked.

"Of course," Liz said as she introduced Louise to Foggy, Matt, and Karen. "You and Mary Jane were just incredible." she gushed.

"Aww, that's so sweet," Louise said, grateful for her co-star's impeccable sense of timing and skillfully placed cues.

Foggy, ever the networker, asked the two actresses,"Do either of you have an agent?"

They both shook their heads. Foggy immediately handed them each a business card belonging to a Jonathan Caesar. "This guy's a client, and a good friend," Foggy told them. "He's well connected and he has a great nose for talent, which you both have in spades. Give him a call and be sure to mention my name. I know for a fact he's got a few openings; I'm sure he'll be happy to take you on."

"Cool," Louise said, speaking for both of them. "Thanks very much Mr. Nelson." Turning back to Mary Jane, she said, "I've got to call a cab. I'm meeting an old college friend at _Park's Jazz and Karaoke Club_ later tonight, a screenwriter from L.A. He just got into town and wants to catch up."

"Hey, that's where we're going," Liz said excitedly. "Do you want to ride with us?"

"Sure." Louise quickly counted heads. "Will there be enough room for everyone?"

"I won't be going," Matt Murdock replied with a subdued abruptness.

"Why not?" Foggy protested, "I thought we were supposed to be taking the night off."

"It's getting late and I've still got work to do. The Korlon deposition, remember?"

"You're incorrigible, Matt," Foggy groaned, shaking his head as he flipped open his cell phone to call a cab. Suddenly, he caught sight of an elderly couple passing by. The man was carrying a copy of the _New York Times_, but was not reading it. What captured Foggy's attention so quickly were the words** Spider-Man**, and **Daredevil** in the headline. "Excuse me," he said to the man, interrupting his conversation, "can I borrow that for a moment?"

"You can have it," the gentleman replied, tossing him the paper.

"You keep asking me for proof about Daredevil, Matt." Foggy said triumphantly to his partner, as if he had finally won a long-running contest. "Well, here it is." He opened the paper and started reading. "Hundreds of eyewitnesses, including no less than five NYPD officers, observed Daredevil and Spider-Man as they approached six different subway stations in the space of an hour . . . So there." Liz, Louise, and Mary Jane all noticed the _I told you so _quality in his tone.

"Why do you keep bringing that up?" Matt asked, sounding irritated. "Stop reading tabloids and get a life."

"The _New York Times_ is not exactly a tabloid, Matt." Foggy retorted. "It's been all over the news. The networks, CNN, they all reported it."

"I'm glad to hear it. Did anybody get a picture?"

"Well, . . . I'm sure somebody squeezed off a few shots. But . . ."

"But nothing," Matt patronizingly lectured his partner, "Until you come up with an authenticated photo, you haven't proven anything. So please, stop bothering me with that crap, all right?"

"What's the difference, Matt?" Foggy shot back. "You can't see pictures anyway."

Mary Jane had been observing this odd exchange closely, wondering if it was a continuation of some longstanding argument between the partners. Of course, she knew that Foggy was right, having seen Daredevil with her own eyes. It struck her as strange that a savvy attorney like Matt Murdock could be so close-minded. She wondered if Daredevil was a secret client of his and he didn't want his partner to know. _Yeah_, _that makes sense_, she thought. And then the wheels started turning. _Maybe he'd be willing to take Peter on too_, she hoped_. Spider-Man could use a good lawyer_.

"M.J.," Louise asked, breaking into Mary Jane's silent fascination with the enigmatic Matt Murdock. "Got any plans for this evening?"

"Uh, No." Mary Jane replied. "My lease runs out at the end of next week. I have to get up early tomorrow morning to start looking for a new place. "

"They won't give you an extension?" Louise asked, concerned.

Mary Jane shook her head. "Nope," she said casually. "They've already leased the apartment to somebody else. But that's okay. I'd kind of like to change my scenery around a little bit."

Although she did not appear outwardly to be concerned about her living situation, in reality, she was quite anxious about it. Until four days ago, she and John had been set to move into Bedford Towers, a luxury condominium complex on the Upper West Side in which his father was a major investor. Now, she was faced with the prospect of having to find a new place on extremely short notice, which was very difficult in Manhattan, even when the market favored renters. Her first choice of course, was to move in with Peter, even if it meant living in that germ-infested hovel until they found their own place. _It would only be temporary_, she reassured herself, confident that they would find a better roof over their heads in less than a month.

M.J. was hoping to broach the subject with Peter as soon as they were together again. After she had gotten Peter's voice mail, she left her own message with that landlord's daughter asking Peter to meet her under the Lyric Theater's marquee around eleven o'clock on Wednesday night. He would be finished with his exams by then. She just hoped that what's-her-face had delivered the message. She would have told Louise to stick around, except that she wasn't sure whether Peter would show up on time, or if he would show up at all. Most people would have great difficulty dealing with that kind of uncertainty. But for Mary Jane, it was already becoming par for the course, the price of admission to Peter's world.

On the other hand, M.J. realized that Peter might be reluctant to let her move in with him right away. She knew that Aunt May was an old-fashioned Catholic who held very conservative views about pre-marital cohabitation. She would probably tell them to get married first. If that were the case, then M.J. would have no choice but to move back with her mother in Queens until the wedding could be arranged. And who knew how long that would take.

"Taxi's here," Foggy called out, interrupting Mary Jane's train of thought as a cab came rolling to a stop in front of the Lyric's entrance. "Sure you don't want to come along, Matt?"

"Positive," Matt responded firmly. "I've already arranged for a taxi to pick me up. I'll see you at the office, first thing tomorrow morning."

"See you, M.J." Louise said heartily as she gave Mary Jane a quick hug.

"Have a good time, okay?" Mary Jane replied. Louise nodded excitedly as she and the others made a dash for the taxi, trying to avoid getting drenched.

Mary Jane watched them go. The rain was coming down harder than ever and the crowd had already dispersed, leaving the lobby empty except for her and Waldo, the usher to whom Peter had referred in his clumsy voice-mail message. Looking back on that day, M.J. was sure that Peter had been telling the truth. Waldo was known for refusing to admit patrons once the show got under way. He had done it more than once. Now, he was busy tidying up the concessions counter.

M.J. sat down on a plush, old-fashioned bench in front of the coatroom, thinking that three days apart from Peter was already too long. She missed him terribly and was deeply concerned about his well-being. And she wanted to get married as fast as possible.

As she waited for Peter, her gaze fell upon a copy of the _Daily Bugle_ sticking out of a nearby trash can. Although the paper had been torn and trampled upon, its repulsive headline was still quite legible: **SPIDER-MAN IMPLICATED IN CHILD'S DEATH**. She grabbed the paper, her emerald eyes blazing with anger as she read an article claiming that Spider-Man had caused the roof of a burning row house in Harlem to collapse, killing a toddler. _That fucking bastard!_ Mary Jane raged silently. _How DARE he! _M.J. had always been mad at the way the _Bugle _maligned Spider-Man, but now that she and Peter were lovers, she took it personally. If J. Jonah Jameson were standing in front of her, she would have punched his lights out. Furious, she crumpled the paper up and hurled it to the floor.

"Ahem," came a stern voice from behind the concession stand. Startled, M.J. looked up to see Waldo glaring at her. "Miss Watson," the pompous usher said haughtily, "your talent as an actress does not give you license to litter. Please dispose of that properly."

"Sorry," M.J. grumbled. She bent down to pick up the ruined newspaper, and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was gone. She found herself instead looking at a pair of trousered legs and a silver and red cane.

"I'll take care of that for you," Matt Murdock said as he stuffed what was left of the tabloid back into the garbage can, where it belonged.

"Mr. Murdock?" Mary Jane asked, wondering how he managed to appear out of nowhere. "I thought you'd left already."

"I needed to use the men's room." He hesitated for the briefest moment. "May I sit down?"

"Yes, of course."

Matt took his place on the bench, sitting as close to the opposite side as he could. Over the years he had become highly sensitized to issues regarding personal space, and had always kept a respectful distance from women who were spoken for. "I couldn't help overhearing your conversation about having to move," he said, sensing her anxiety about that subject.

"I think I may have cut it too close." she responded cautiously. "My lease is almost up and I haven't even started looking around for a new place yet."

"You may want to take a look at Hell's Kitchen," Matt suggested. "There are plenty of rentals available, nice places at reasonable prices."

"But that neighborhood's so violent," Mary Jane protested.

"It used to be, but not any more." Matt reassured her. "Thanks to extensive urban renewal, the Kitchen is now one the safest neighborhoods in New York City, if not _the_ safest. It's close to the heart of the Theater District. Lots of actors live there. Young professionals, too. It's a vibrant, thriving community, but not too many outsiders know this because it can't shake its past reputation." He could tell from Mary Jane's physiological responses that she was getting sold on the idea.

"I'll talk to my boyfriend about it and see what he says," Mary Jane replied, "Thanks for the tip."

"You're welcome." he said, even as he sensed a twinge of worry again emanating from M.J.

Mary Jane suddenly felt very concerned that Franklin Nelson might have inadvertently given his partner wrong idea about her because of the fallout from the aborted wedding. She wanted to clear the air right away. "Mr. Murdock," she said a little nervously, "I hope you don't think I'm some sort of flake, the way I walked out on my wedding and all. I'm not in the habit of hurting men that I care about."

Matt smiled, already knowing the reasons behind Mary Jane's actions. "I wasn't thinking that at all, Miss Watson," he responded kindly. "You're obviously in love with somebody else. The unfortunate timing aside, I think you did the right thing. Besides," he said wryly, "I can't think of too many people courageous enough to incur the wrath of J. Jonah Jameson in such a public fashion."

M.J. smiled at the compliment. "Actually, it would've taken more courage to go through with that wedding and be stuck with Mr. Jameson as my father-in-law." Matt was able to discern a tiny, barely perceptible note of contempt in her voice. "Think you can give a starving actress a little bit of free legal advice?" she inquired half-jokingly.

"I'll try. But just remember, the quality of a lawyer's advice varies directly with his fee."

Matt's second lawyer joke that evening once again elicited Mary Jane's musical giggle. But she got right to the point, not wanting to waste the precious few minutes of the attorney's time. "Can Mr. Jameson sue me?" she asked, plainly worried about repercussions.

"Sure," Matt replied matter-of-factly. "But the real question is whether he would win. And the answer to that is no. You see, a promise to marry is not like most other contracts. The law recognizes that people can and do back out, often at the last minute. I'm sure that Mr. Jameson's attorneys have already advised him on this."

Mary Jane breathed a sigh of relief. She appreciated the way Matt Murdock made her feel comfortable, and felt reassured that she could rely on Matt and his partner if Jameson ever made trouble for her. She also felt safe talking to him about something else that was on her mind. "Um . . . Mr. Murdock," she began, somewhat tentatively. "I think you should know that your partner is right."

"He's right about a lot of things, Miss Watson. Is there anything in particular?"

"Yes." M.J. did not beat around the bush. She knew that Foggy was on the mark about Daredevil and felt that Matt had come down a little bit too hard on him. Lowering her voice to make sure that Waldo would not overhear her, she whispered. "Daredevil."

Matt's eyebrows went up behind his glasses. "Really?" he asked neutrally. "You saw him?"

"Yes."

"When was that?"

Mary Jane knew she was on the spot just by the way that Matt Murdock asked the question. He was, after all, a battle-hardened courtroom lawyer who could go through a witness like a knife through butter. She could not tell him that she was with Spider-Man when she saw Daredevil. She would have to come up with a really good story and hope that her acting abilities were up to the challenge.

"I went up to the _Winter Garden_ for an audition a few weeks ago," M.J. said, as calmly and straight-faced as she could. "It was late when I got finished, so I decided to save some money and take the subway home. Just before I got to the station, I saw him, standing on a ledge, four stories up."

M.J's fluttering heartbeat clued Matt in that she was lying. But he knew that her lie was about the particular circumstances of the encounter, not the encounter itself. He briefly considered cross-examining Mary Jane, but quickly nixed the idea. As seasoned a litigator as he was, he could never rattle witnesses who were telling the truth. _She's not only strong, but incredibly savvy as well_, he thought, admiring how quickly she was able to think on her feet in coming up with her fib about the circumstances of her encounter with Daredevil. But he was not really that surprised. After all, this woman was Spider-Man's girlfriend, and had to have been quite adept at deflecting unwanted inquiries. Mary Jane's good character and sound judgment, along with a desire not to put Peter in the awkward position of having to keep any more secrets from his soon-to-be wife, convinced Matt Murdock to take a leap of faith and trust her with his identity.

"You're quite an astute observer, Miss Watson," he said to M.J. quietly.

Mary Jane knew exactly what Matt was referring to. "Then . . . you do know about Daredevil?" she inquired.

"Yes," he said gently. "And as you can see, I'm not the bad guy."

A look of confusion came over Mary Jane's face, followed by comprehension. A tiny gasp escaped from her lips as her heartbeat spiked and her eyes widened. Picking up on her reaction, Matt admitted, "I sensed you and Peter behind the billboard last Saturday night."

"It . . . can't . . . be," M.J. stammered, feeling as if she had just seen an elephant dance on the head of a pin. But he had to be the one. How else could Matt have known about her and Peter? It suddenly dawned on her that Peter must know him as well. Still, she couldn't quite bring herself to believe it. "Impossible . . ." she murmured softly.

"Like a man having spider powers is impossible?"

Matt had a point there. But there were differences. Big differences. "You're . . . blind." Mary Jane asserted, keeping her voice down. "The guy I saw took out four punks in less than a minute. How can you possibly fight like that?"

"It's a very long and complicated story, Miss Watson. Suffice to say that when the Lord taketh away, he giveth back in greater measure."

"Call me Mary Jane, please," M.J. replied, her doubts slowly ebbing. "And I'm sorry I lied to you just now. I feel like such an idiot."

"It was a good effort on your part," Matt complimented her. "If I wasn't actually there, and I didn't have the ability to detect a person's heartbeat, I would have probably believed you. You're a very fine actress."

Mary Jane was about to ask Matt about how he could hear heartbeats when she suddenly saw him tilt his head slightly toward the windows. "Is something wrong?" she asked, concerned, but not alarmed.

"I'm listening to a cell phone conversation between Mr. J. Jonah Jameson and an individual named Eddie Brock," Matt explained. "Do you know him?"

"He's a reporter for the _Daily Bugle_, I think." Although M.J. had never met Brock in person, she was well aware of his reputation, courtesy of her ex. John had mentioned him frequently as his father's heir apparent at the _Bugle_. He once joked that he and Brock had been switched at birth.

"This person appears to have stationed himself in that alley across the street, near the entrance," Matt continued.

"How do you know that?" Mary Jane asked in wonderment.

"The accident that took away my eyesight enhanced my other senses." Matt explained. "I hear and smell far beyond the range of normal human frequencies. I also see by a kind of three-sixty radar."

M.J.'s bewilderment gave way to realization. "Is that how you spotted Peter and me behind that billboard?"

"Exactly." He held up his hand as he cocked his head, pointing his ear towards the entrance to the alley.

"What's happening?" Mary Jane asked nervously.

"Brock reported that he is observing you inside the lobby of the Lyric Theater in the company of . . .'some blind dude.'" Mary Jane watched him grimace with displeasure. "But he can't see too well because of the rain."

"I knew this was going to happen," Mary Jane hissed, her anger growing at the _Bugle_'s blatant invasion of her privacy. "My almost father-in-law may be a scumbag, but he's no dummy. He must have found out about Peter and me by now. It's only a matter of time before he puts the puzzle together and figures out who Peter is."

Matt was detecting fear in Mary Jane's voice as well as anger. "You needn't worry," he reassured her. "My partner may not be well schooled in the social graces, but he's a real pit bull when it comes to putting a case together. We've won quite a few battles for our clients over the years, and as you know, we were successful in two libel actions against the _Daily Bugle_. Besides, Peter and I talked about this. I've given him a few suggestions which I'm sure he'll share with you. The bottom line is that you won't have a problem with Mr. Jameson once everything falls into line."

Emboldened by Matt's confident assurances, Mary Jane smiled sarcastically and waved in the direction of the alley, mouthing the words, "Hi Eddie."

Her move had the desired effect. "I think you startled him," Matt reported. "He's telling Mr. Jameson, 'damn, how in hell did she see me?'"

"What's Jameson saying?"

"He's yelling, 'don't stand in the middle of the street you idiot!' Now Brock's insisting that there was no way you should have been able to spot him."

Mary Jane laughed softly. How she would have loved to see the shocked look on that Eddie Brock's face.

"I think that he's retreating," Matt informed her, sitting back with a sigh. "He just closed his cell phone and is walking away."

"Good riddance," Mary Jane snapped.

"You've got sass, lady," Matt told her admiringly. Her spunk reminded him of his first encounter with Elektra. She too was spunky and tough, but in a much different way than Mary Jane.

"I need it for survival," M.J. said in a steady voice. "Oh, and by the way, Matt, in case no one else said it, thanks for everything you guys did the other day. You and Peter were fabulous, the way you broke up that terrorist operation."

"Peter is a very brave soul," Matt said with heartfelt sincerity. "And he loves you very, very much. You were all he thought about while we were dismantling those bombs."

Mary Jane felt the familiar prick of tears gathering behind her eyes. As good as it was when Peter told her that he loved her, it felt just as wonderful hearing it from someone else, especially someone whom Peter held in high esteem. She gazed into Matt Murdock's dark glasses, looking for a window to his soul that she could open up. "It can't be easy," she whispered empathetically.

"What?"

"Being able to sense everything the way you do. It must be overwhelming."

"You are remarkably perceptive, Mary Jane," Matt answered, very much taken by this lovely young lady's kind and gentle manner. He was surprised at how comfortable he felt confiding in her. "I can't go into bars or crowded places at all. It's murder on my ears."

"So that's why you didn't go with the others," M.J. responded. Her curiosity piqued, she asked, "how do you get any sleep?"

"I use a sensory deprivation tank."

"What's that?"

"It's kind of like a stainless steel bathtub with a lid on it," he explained. "It's the only technology available that completely shuts off all outside stimuli. You fill the tub with water, lie down, shut the lid, and go to sleep."

"But couldn't you drown?"

"No. I put epsom salts in the water to keep me buoyant."

"Wow, that's amazing," Mary Jane said, a little awed. "I've never heard of anything like that." As she talked with Matt Murdock, she was beginning to get the idea that he was a long-time resident of the twilight world that Peter inhabited, a world that shut its denizens off from the rest of humanity. "Pete's been so lonely his whole life, and being Spider-Man made it worse in many ways," she said, choosing her words carefully, so as not to appear too presumptuous. "It's the same for you, isn't it?"

"It's not easy, Mary Jane," Matt sighed, thinking of all the people he'd walled himself off from over the years. There was Foggy, who, despite his numerous foibles, was always there for him. There was Heather, who only demanded what she had the right to expect after three months of steady dating, nothing more. And then there was Elektra, the only woman he ever cared about enough to let into his inner sanctum, only to see her taken from him in such a brutal and uncompromising fashion.

"It took Peter and me a long time to break through the walls that were separating us," M.J. continued softly. "I almost married a man I didn't love because Peter kept pushing me away. He thought he was protecting me . . . because he loves me , but all he did was break my heart, again and again." She kept her contemplative gaze fixed on him, grateful that she could finally deal with that issue without crying. "Tell me something, Matt," she said. "Are you close to Franklin?"

"He's like a brother," Matt affirmed as he reflected on their long history together. Perceiving Mary Jane's interest and sincerity, he added, "Do you know that Foggy once spent over three thousand dollars to get me a seeing eye dog that I didn't even ask for?"

Mary Jane was amused at Matt's nickname for his partner. At the same time, she was moved by the depth of Foggy's sacrifice, and was convinced that Matt was making a mistake in shutting out such a close friend.

"You call him Foggy?" she asked with a slight chuckle.

"It sort of fits, doesn't it?"

"I suppose so" she conceded reluctantly. "But you know Matt, there aren't too many people who would give so much of themselves for another person. Maybe you should think about letting him in. It might take away some of the loneliness."

"I understand what you're saying, Mary Jane," Matt responded. "I don't know how many times I've thought about telling him, but it's mainly for his own safety that I've never done it. As you can well imagine, I've got more enemies than I can count. These are people who wouldn't hesitate to kill him just to get to me."

"Take it from someone who's been there, Matt," M.J. said with a conviction that threw the battle-tested vigilante off stride. "It's better to tell him the truth and let him decide for himself what he wants to do about it."

Matt did not have a ready answer for her. In a sense, he realized, she was right. Foggy was a grown man, and a highly intelligent one at that. He had shown his loyalty over and over without ever asking for anything in return. But Matt again thought of Elektra, his true love. If she was still alive, and she loved him as much as she had professed, then why hadn't she kept her promise and returned? Could it be that she was unable to accept that he was Daredevil? What if Foggy reacted the same way? "I'll take it under advisement," was all Matt could say. Sensing the lateness of the hour, he flipped open his watch and felt for the position of its hands against the braille numbers. "I have to go," he said to Mary Jane.

"You're not really going back to work, are you?" M.J. asked knowingly.

"I am," he said softly, "I'll be taking over for Peter on the night shift. We sort of have an informal arrangement, kind of like tag-teaming."

"Do you want me to help you get a cab?" she asked, feeling tremendously relieved that Peter now had someone who could help lighten his burdens.

"I called ahead for one," Matt informed her as they stepped outside. "But thank you anyway." The Lyric's small marquee barely provided any shelter from the unrelenting downpour. Fortunately, a yellow cab had just arrived.

Mary Jane offered Matt her hand. He gently took it without missing a beat. "Thanks for being there to watch Peter's back." she said with genuine warmth in her voice. " It's nice to know he has someone that he can look up to, kind of like a big brother."

Matt acknowledged Mary Jane's praise with a smile and a brief nod as he quickly made his way toward the waiting taxi. She watched Matt climb into the cab and ride off, feeling extremely privileged to be the only person in the Big Apple who knew the secret identities of both of New York's resident super-heroes.

She was about to go back inside when someone else joined her under the marquee. It was a Japanese street musician that she had often seen near the theater. Seeking shelter from the rain, the busker parked herself right in front of Mary Jane's rave notice. Seeing that she had an audience, she pulled her out-of-tune violin from its case and started playing the ditty that was making her a local celebrity.

"_Spider-Mon, Spider-Mon, Does whatever a Spider con . . ."_ True, the lady was a terrible singer, but all the same, M.J. hung onto every off-key note. It was a song about the man she loved, and for all she cared, Jimmy Durante could have been singing it.

"Miss Watson," Waldo called from the door that he was holding open. "I'm locking up soon. Would you like me to call you a cab?"

"No thank you," Mary Jane responded, "I'm waiting for someone. He'll be here in a few minutes." . . . _I hope_ . . .

"That would be fine Miss Watson," Waldo said kindly. He might have been a stickler, but he was somewhat protective of the performers who graced his stage. "Please let me know if you change your mind."

"Okay," she replied over her shoulder. It was unseasonably cold outside and the rain still wasn't letting up. She decided she would ask Waldo to call a cab for her in five minutes if Peter didn't show.

The busker continued playing her song. _" . . . Is he strong? Listen bud. He's got radioactive blood . . ."_

_Not quite_, thought Mary Jane, _but at least it sounds cool_. Between the torrential rain and that awful music, she never heard the sound of wet footsteps emerging from the cold dark night and coming up behind her.

"Hey, M.J.," said the voice that Mary Jane wanted to hear more than anything else in the world.

She whirled around and wrapped her rain-soaked lover in a tight bear hug, nuzzling her cheek next to his. "I'm . . . so . . . proud of you, Tiger," she wept softly, her magnificent emerald eyes brimming with tears of joy at their long-awaited reunion.

"I love you, Maria Giovanna," he whispered as his lips made their way toward hers, "L'amo cosí."


	17. Safe Haven

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XVII**

**SAFE HAVEN**

It was a running joke throughout the Big Apple's journalism community that Eddie Brock was J. Jonah Jameson's true son. Obnoxious with colleagues and arrogant with underlings, he was held in contempt by everyone in the _Daily Bugle_ organization except his boss, for whom he had raised apple-polishing to an art. In fact, his entire sense of self was little more than a reflection in the irascible publisher's mirror. So it was only natural that he would subscribe to Jameson's notion that Spider-Man was a reckless vigilante, as much a danger to society as the criminals he purportedly fought. Jonah's crusade against the webslinger became his cause célèbre, at least to the extent that he could cash in on it.

As he rode the subway, his trenchcoat dripping wet, his ears still ringing from Jonah's dressing down over being spotted, Brock reflected on his lot in life. A man of medium stature, he had a large head, dark blonde curly hair, and a proboscis for a nose that made him stand out in a crowd and forced him to abandon his dream of becoming an undercover F.B.I. agent. But old ambitions had been supplanted by new ones. In his own mind, he was a first-rate journalist, the _Daily Bugle_'s star reporter, the go-to guy who wrote the articles that sold Mr. Jameson's newspaper. He was eagerly counting the days until that old gasbag Robertson retired and he would be named City Editor. From there, he would be groomed as Mr. Jameson's heir, the _Bugle's _next Publisher. Each assignment successfully concluded would bring him a step closer to that goal.

Yesterday, Mr. Jameson had given Brock his latest marching orders; keep Mary Jane Watson's beautiful ass under surveillance until she rendezvoused with Spider-Man, then capture the moment. Catching them frenching on a rooftop would be great; catching them in a carnal embrace would be even better. Either way, he would probably nail the crawler without his mask on and earn his boss's eternal gratitude, and maybe even a Pulitzer Prize.

Unfortunately, his hands were tied. Acceding to John's demands, Mr. Jameson had made it very clear that Mary Jane Watson's career was not to be jeopardized in any way. As Brock thought about the aborted wedding, he began to feel contempt for the jilted groom. The younger Jameson may have been a brave astronaut, but he was also a schmuck for letting his ex-fiancée treat him like dirt and get away with it. Eddie would never have stood for that bullshit. _He_ would never have let that Watson bitch trample all over him like that. He would have used every means at his disposal to make sure that she never found another job again, except possibly waiting tables. But orders were orders, and he would have to do it Mr. Jameson's way if he ever wanted to get his hands on that bonus, or his next promotion.

As Brock mulled over his limited options, he became convinced that he would actually be doing that back-stabbing tart a huge favor by exposing her as Spider-Man's squeeze. It would make her far more famous than she would ever be as the second-rate actress she was, he thought sarcastically. Hell, it would probably send her box office drawing power through the roof and land her on _Regis, Oprah, _and _the Today Show_, maybe even _Saturday Night Live_, the epitome of fame in Eddie's limited imagination.

The only trouble was that Ms. Watson was on to him. _There's no way that tramp should've been able to see me_, he thought, pissed off at how easily M.J. had caught him off guard. When Eddie spotted her inside the Lyric Theater, he had taken up a position in an alley across the street, well beyond the reach of the street light that illuminated its entrance. She was talking to some blind guy when, out of the blue, she started waving at him. He started to think that the blind man had somehow tipped her off, but, being practical minded, he quickly dismissed that notion. More likely, he got careless and let his guard down, a mistake he would not repeat.

Brock knew the building where Mary Jane lived. While M.J. had been dating John, Mr. Jameson, out of concern for her safety and with his son's blessing, had ordered Eddie to make sure that she had gotten home safely. He would secretly tail her each night as she made the trip from the Lyric. Sometimes she would take the subway, but not today, since the nearest station was seven blocks away and the rain was still coming down in buckets. He was sure that she would be taking a taxi home this evening. He would be waiting when she arrived.

Eddie had once innocently asked Mr. Jameson what floor Mary Jane's apartment was on, but was told in no uncertain terms that it was none of his business. His instructions were to go home once Mary Jane had reached her front door. _Finding out that crucial tidbit of information won't be a problem now_, he grinned. He imagined that Mr. Jameson would only be too happy to let him know what window Spider-Man would be crawling into.

But it was too bad that little punk Peter Parker quit, he grumbled. Parker was the camera guy and the expert on Spider-Man. Having him on board would have made the whole thing a lot easier. Now Eddie would have to track the webslinger by himself. But it couldn't be that hard, especially if a dweeb like Parker could do it. In fact, he would go one better. He would use videotape. All he had to do was get a good videocam, practice, and wait. With time and patience, the scoop of the century would be his, not to mention a fortune from the T.V. networks, who would pay him the moon just to get their hands on his footage.

The train, meanwhile, had arrived at Mary Jane's stop. Brock decided that he would hang around her building on the hunch that Spider-Man might show up. _Fat chance of that happening in this weather, but what the hell?_ he mused. He didn't relish the prospect of another cold shower, but he didn't have an umbrella and there was no place that he could find shelter from the rain without losing his vantage point. He would wait for about fifteen minutes, and if he didn't see her, he would call it a night and resume his surveillance when the rain let up.

His reporter's luck held. Just as he was emerging from the subway, he saw a taxi pulling up to the building's entrance. The rear door opened and Mary Jane got out. She was with someone. He squinted hard through the heavy downpour, oblivious to its cold sting. _Could it be?_ he thought, shocked at seeing Mary Jane with . . . _Peter Parker? What the hell is _he_ doing here? _he wondered as he tried to eavesdrop on their conversation. As far as he could tell, they appeared to be shouting at each other. After a few minutes, he saw Mary Jane suddenly belt Parker across the chops. Then he heard Parker threaten to sue her as she disappeared through her revolving door.

It didn't take the normally obtuse Eddie Brock long to get wind of what was happening. Parker must have gotten a job with the _New York Post_ and was now trying to out-scoop the _Bugle_ on the "Spider-Man's girlfriend" story. _That little twerp must've pushed his way into the taxi with her_, he figured. At the same time, he couldn't help feeling a twinge of admiration for Peter at having turned on Jameson, and then on Spider-Man for what surely had to have been a huge price offered by the _Bugle's_ chief rival. And to think he had Parker pegged as a doormat, he mused. Maybe Parker was a hustler after all; he had certainly pulled the wool over Jameson's eyes with that do-gooder act of his. But Parker's move left Brock with a tactical and strategic problem. Either that sewer rat had an incredible run of good luck or, more likely, he had an insider's knowledge of the wallcrawler's habits, without which Eddie would be at a huge disadvantage. He would have to work fast if he was to have any chance at beating Parker to the scoop.

Suddenly, in what was for Eddie Brock a remarkable flash of intuition, the entire solution to his problem fell neatly into place. Why not just tail Parker and let him lead the way to Spider-Man? He wouldn't even have to worry about tracking the webslinger; he would let Parker do it for him. When Parker nailed that guy, he would be right there, videocam ready. All he had to do was to find out Parker's address and monitor his comings and goings. Confident of victory, he slipped back into the subway and headed home, already formulating his new surveillance strategy.

That the gorgeous Mary Jane Watson could have dumped an all-American hero for the likes of Peter Parker was so outlandish that the idea never even entered Eddie Brock's normally fallow mind. That Parker himself could actually _be_ Spider-Man was even further beyond his comprehension.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"L'amo cosí, too," Mary Jane repeated softly as she held Peter in her arms under the Lyric's marquee. They were locked together like magnets, neither wanting to let go of the other. Peter closed his eyes and allowed a deep wave of peace to wash over him. At last, he could stop struggling and rest. After a long minute of basking in Mary Jane's delicious presence, he unzipped the breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

"I saved this for you, M.J." he said softly as he handed it to her.

She unfolded it, and beheld Peter's _Flying Dutchman_ poem, peek-a-boo picture and all. One of the words near the end was a bit smudged from a tear that had fallen on it, _her_ tear.

"Oh, Peter," she whispered, a rush of passion engulfing her as she hugged him again. "I'm going to frame this and put in on my night stand, so it'll be the second thing I see when I wake up every morning."

"What'll be the first thing?" Peter asked, raising his eyebrows.

"You," she said as she kissed him deeply on the lips once more. She immediately put the poem in her purse, making sure the rain couldn't get to it.

The Japanese busker, meanwhile, had completed her number and was doing an encore, now that the size of her audience had doubled. Peter never liked that song. He grimaced, as he always did, when he heard the line about having radioactive blood.

"I think she's got me confused with Bruce Banner," he said with a rueful smile, well out of the musician's earshot.

"Wanna tell her about the superspider?" M.J. asked giddily.

"I don't think she'd believe me," Peter quipped as he gently rubbed her back. "Heck, I'm not even sure I'd believe me."

They had been apart for only three days, but it seemed like an eternity. They had so many things to say to each other, so much to catch up on. But first, they had to get out of this awful rain. Mary Jane was about to go back inside the theater to call a cab when, as if by magic, a taxi turned the corner and pulled right up to them. M.J. waved at Waldo, graciously acknowledging his alertness. Waldo smiled back as he closed the door, turned off the lights, and locked up the Lyric for the night. He never got a clear view of the slender young man with her.

But Peter had recognized Waldo immediately, and quickly turned his head away. "You think that guy would've been so accommodating if he'd seen me?" he asked Mary Jane dryly as they got into the taxi, remembering all too vividly his unfortunate previous encounter with the haughty usher.

Mary Jane shrugged her shoulders. "I dunno, Tiger," she giggled softly. "Maybe we should ask him."

"No thanks," Peter said emphatically as he breathed in the faint but still tantalizing aroma of her perfume. "I hope you didn't worry about me too much."

"Of course I did," M.J. replied with her priceless grin as she leaned back and opened her arms, inviting him into her warm embrace.

Neither of them said a word during the trip back to her apartment. They were kissing intensely, steaming up the taxi's windows, much to the young Hispanic cabbie's bemusement. Yet, even in the midst of their ardor, Mary Jane had a niggling sense that something was off, ever so slightly.

Her perception was remarkable. As Peter rested his head on Mary Jane's lap, he thought about the roller coaster he had been on since he had last seen her. He had saved a former boss from deportation, stopped a terrorist attack, rescued four children from a potentially deadly fire, thwarted a jewelry store robbery, broken up a gang fight, and landed two more jobs, all while cramming for three finals and struggling to finish a term paper. But Harry Osborn's mental collapse, and Officer Paul Davis's brutal murder still weighed heavily on his mind. His impulse to blame himself for those occurrences had put the kibosh on any urge he might have had to celebrate his considerable accomplishments.

Peter had stopped briefly at the _Bergen-Fitzgerald _Funeral Home that morning for the veteran police officer's viewing, hoping he could find solace by apologizing to Davis in person. As he quietly filed past the open casket to pay his respects, he couldn't help but be impressed by the wonderful job the morticians had done. Davis was smiling slightly, his expression calm and peaceful, the fatal bullet wound in his neck well camouflaged. For an instant, Peter marveled that Davis just didn't just open his eyes, get up, and walk away. But the dreadful thought that this would be the last day that Officer Davis's face would ever see daylight had forcefully brought Peter back to his final moments with Uncle Ben, and to the overwhelming sense of guilt associated with those memories. Although Peter couldn't acknowledge it consciously, his demons had given him a messiah complex, so much so that he came to view the loss of even one life as a catastrophic failure, regardless of whether he could have actually prevented it. "Forgive me," he had murmured as he stared at the body, hoping that if he tried hard and saved enough lives, the good Lord might overlook his sins, or at least not demand a pound of flesh from his loved ones.

"Forgive me," he repeated in the back seat of the taxi, so lost amid his own thoughts that he didn't realize he had broken the kiss until he felt Mary Jane lightly stroking his stubble-covered cheek.

"You're forgiven, for whatever you did or didn't do," Mary Jane whispered, gently bringing him back to the present.

The darkness inside the cab was punctuated by the transitory glow from street lights and passing vehicles. And in those brief moments of illumination, Mary Jane could see in Peter's ocean-blue eyes the hollow expression of a wanderer who had staggered into an oasis after having endured the worst the desert could dish out. Those eyes were surrounded by huge dark circles, a sure sign of prolonged sleep deprivation.

"Peter, are you all right?" M.J. asked, her concern for his well-being evident in her soft, musical voice.

"Yeah fine.," Peter answered with a sigh, still mentally juxtaposing Officer Davis and Uncle Ben. "I've got a lot on my mind, that's all. It's been quite a week, you know."

"I'll bet it has," Mary Jane said soberly, resisting the urge to thank Peter for stopping the terrorists in the presence of a stranger.

"Sorry to interrupt you two lovebirds, but we're here," the cabbie informed them in heavily accented English as the taxi arrived at its destination.

As they got out of the taxi, Peter handed the driver a twenty-dollar bill. "Keep the change," he said with a tired smile.

"Hey, man, muchas gracias," the cabbie responded gratefully as Peter and Mary Jane made a dash for her revolving door.

"My, we're in a generous mood today," M.J. observed as they reached the porch. Peter was about to tell her about his good fortunes in the job market when suddenly his spider-sense went off.

"What's the matter?" she asked as she saw his eyes went widen and his head jerk up sharply.

"Someone's watching us from the subway station across the street." he said in a low voice. "I think he saw us get out of the taxi together."

Mary Jane knew perfectly well who it was. "Eddie Brock," she said matter-of-factly.

"Huh?" Peter gaped. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," she replied, her lovely features twisting into a frown. "Just before you got to the theater, I caught him spying on me from across the street. That asshole must've followed us." She knew without being told not to look in Brock's direction.

"Jameson doesn't waste any time," Peter said sardonically as he quickly brought Mary Jane up to speed on what had transpired at the _Bugle_ the day before, including his conversation with her ex-fiancé. They both realized the trouble they were in. If John could figure out that Peter was Spider-Man just from the fact that he and Mary Jane were together, it would not be a stretch for Jonah to draw the same conclusion. Peter shuddered inwardly as he realized the magnitude of the disaster that John had helped him avert, a disaster that would have been of his own making. And not even Matt Murdock would have been able to protect them from the fallout that would surely have resulted.

As mortified as she was at Eddie Brock's blatant intrusion, Mary Jane had to laugh when Peter mentioned Jameson's promise of a bonus for catching her with Spider-Man. At the same time, she was deeply moved by her former flame's quick thinking in staving off his old man's incessantly inquiring mind, and his selflessness in promising never to reveal what he knew about Peter. With a creativity spurred on by extreme necessity, she rapidly devised a countervailing strategy. "Does Brock know you quit?" she asked.

"I think so."

"Good. Then let's do some improvisation. It's kind of like acting, but it's unscripted. Pretend that you got a job with another paper, and that you're hounding me for gossip about Spider-Man."

At first, Peter thought Mary Jane was crazy, but he quickly caught on to her logic. Their off-the-cuff skit would disabuse Brock of the notion that M.J. was dating Peter, _if _they could pull it off.

"I don't know that I can do this, M.J." he said anxiously.

"You can," she assured him. "You act like a smart ass every time you put that mask on. Now, just trust me and go along with it."

Peter had never thought of himself as an actor. But having seen Eddie Brock in action more than he cared to, he had a pretty good idea of what to do. "Um . . . **Is it true, Miss Watson, that you dumped your groom for Spider-Man?"** He was getting right into her face the way Eddie would, even mimicking the obnoxious reporter's grating style of questioning and his whiney, nasal voice.

"That's good, Peter, " Mary Jane whispered reassuringly as she ad-libbed, **"I have no idea what you're talking about."**

"**Who do you think you're kidding, Miss Watson?"** he asked loudly, hamming it up with a bit of artificial sarcasm. **"Come on, how long have you been dating Spider-Man?"**

"**Look Sherlock, I'm not gonna tell you again!" **Mary Jane snapped, doing a great job of appearing angry and flustered at being harassed by a paparazzo. Using well-honed emoting techniques she had picked up from Robin Kelly, she brought her mind back to the time before her great awakening, back to when she thought Peter was a flighty, irresponsible jerk who did not care a whit about her feelings. She was surprised at how easily she was able to do it. **"You've got three seconds to get your ass outta hear before I call the cops!" **she yelled, wondering if Brock was buying it.

Peter was wondering the same thing. Suddenly, he had an idea that he hoped would make their performance thoroughly convincing. "Slap me," he whispered.

Mary Jane hadn't been anticipating having to take their performance that far. "Is that really necessary?" she asked a little anxiously.

Peter nodded affirmatively. He did not want to take any chances that Brock might see through their deception. "Hit me as hard as you want," he told M.J. with a reassuring smile. "It won't hurt, I promise. Just make it look good."

"Okay Tiger," she said reluctantly. "But just remember, you asked for it." Channeling every ounce of her acting talent into that moment, Mary Jane cut loose and slapped Peter hard across the face, perhaps a little harder than she had wanted to. **"Are you deaf as well as dense!" **she shouted, putting on a hell of a good show for the smarmy tabloid journalist standing in the rain half a block away. **"Now beat it!"** Immediately afterward, she whispered. "Meet me at the back door." And with that, she turned and stomped into her lobby, feigning indignation all the way.

_Damn, she's good_, Peter thought, admiring how even her posture — back and shoulders held rigid with manufactured anger — had struck the perfect note. **"You'll be hearing from my lawyer, Miss Watson!" **he shouted as he walked quickly away, once again getting drenched. He did not stop walking until his spider-sense told him that Brock had gone. Then he turned back and, with lightning speed, ducked into the alley behind her building and immediately spotted the door he was looking for. No sooner had he knocked when the door opened and a pair of soft feminine hands reached out into the rainy night and yanked him inside. The arms to which those hands were attached encircled him once more as the door closed by itself.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Ten minutes later, they were back in the safety and comfort of Mary Jane's apartment, warming up on her sofa, courtesy of dry clothes, hot tea, and a gently hissing space heater. Peter was a sight for M.J.'s sore eyes in the white turtleneck and blue trousers he had left last Monday. And she was absolutely driving him crazy in her low-slung black athletic pants and sexy half-tank top that barely covered her breasts.

Their wet clothes were hanging on Mary Jane's shower curtain. And, for the second time that week, his costume was running through her washer. On her coffee table lay the mail she had retrieved: two bills, a credit card offer from _Citibank_, and a complimentary copy of the _Village Voice_.

"It was awfully smart of you to leave your stuff here," Mary Jane observed as she sipped her tea. "You're just lucky your underwear stayed dry."

"I guess so," Peter responded with relief, feeling more at home in her place than he ever did in that miserable excuse for an apartment he was living in.

M.J. had been cuddling next to him on the couch. She reached up and caressed the cheek where she had struck him earlier. She had half-expected to see a red spot, but there was none. "Are you _sure_ that didn't hurt?" she asked, amazed at his resilience.

"Didn't feel a thing," he replied confidently. "You're such a terrific actress, M.J. That was definitely one of your best performances."

"You didn't do such a bad job yourself, Tiger," she grinned. "I only hope it was worth the trouble."

Peter lightly caressed her cheek. "I'm sure it bought us some time," he said cautiously. "But I should warn you. Eddie may be a brockhead, but he's persistent. I guarantee you he'll be back."

Mary Jane laughed merrily at Peter's insulting wordplay with Brock's name. "I hate to say this, Pete, but a thousand bucks for a make-out pic with Spider-Man is kind of cheap."

"You know Jameson," Peter shrugged, catching sight of the sparkling mischief in her eyes. "The man pinches every penny he manages to get his grubby little hands on."

Mary Jane's face suddenly lit up. "Tell you what," she suggested with a giggle. "Why don't we shoot the picture he wants and charge him forty thousand for it?"

"Great idea, M.J.," Peter said wryly. "But why stop there? How about fifty?"

"Sixty then," she said playfully upping the ante.

"Going once, twice, three times . . . Sold . . . to the beautiful red-haired lady in the back."

She nuzzled her face next to his while he pretended to hold a camera out in front of them.

"Oops," he chuckled. "I forgot to load the camera." Suddenly, he started tickling her sides. Mary Jane laughed as she twisted around in his arms, her back arching as she reacted to the wonderful tingling sensation generated by his electrical fingers. She heartily reciprocated, slipping her hands beneath his turtleneck and working her way up to his armpits, softly brushing the rock-hard slabs of warm, rippled muscle in his stomach and chest. He could not remember the last time he ever had such a good laugh.

"I always wondered if Spider-Man was ticklish," she quipped as their mirth subsided, delighted to find out that he was. She gazed deeply and lovingly into his eyes and saw that he was having a lot of trouble keeping them open.

"Have you been getting enough sleep?" she inquired softly, almost seductively.

"Well . . . I . . . er . . ." he stuttered, caught off guard momentarily.

"Come on Peter," she said in a tone that was at once gentle and stern. "Tell me the truth."

"If you really want to know, I haven't gotten any sleep since the last time I was here." he answered sheepishly, for once not trying to hide reality, or even shade it.

"Shame on you!" she said teasingly, uncannily reminding him of Aunt May. "You could get sick, staying up like that."

"You're right, M.J." Peter agreed. "Believe me, I had every intention of going to bed at a decent hour. But it was finals week and . . . there were . . . lots of . . . disturbances . . ." He was giving her that lost-puppy look that she found so incredibly endearing.

"Peter Parker," Mary Jane quipped as her arms encircled him, "if you think for one minute that I'm going to fall for that clumsy . . . idiotic . . . lame excuse again . . . you're absolutely . . . positively . . . _definitely_ right!" Their lips came together as she pulled him down on top of her, igniting their passions once again. _God, he's so hot_, she thought wickedly as she slipped her hands beneath his shirt, intent on taking it off this time. _Too hot_, she suddenly realized. She quickly broke their kiss and touched her lips to his forehead. "See, what did I tell you?" she said pointedly. "You've got a fever."

"That's 'cause I got the hots for you, babe," Peter crooned, trying to entertain her with a little spidey humor as he attempted to resume the kiss.

"Come on, Peter, be serious. Let me take your temperature." She led him into her bedroom and made him lie down. Reaching into her night stand drawer, she pulled out an ear thermometer and stuck it in one ear, then the other.

"A hundred and two," she said worriedly, sounding very much like the mother she would one day become.

Peter rolled over, genuinely surprised. "Really?"

She showed him the thermometer's liquid crystal display. "Don't you feel it?" she asked, even more worried that he might not even be capable of acknowledging his own illness.

"Well, to be honest, I'm a bit tired and chilly, but other than that, I feel basically okay."

"I think you'd better take some _Motrin,_ and go to sleep," Mary Jane tenderly admonished, not bothering to hide her disappointment at having to put off lovemaking. She went into the bathroom and quickly returned with a bottle of generic Ibuprofen and a cup of water. She watched in astonishment as he popped two caplets into his mouth and chewed them like candy.

"You're supposed to swallow those," M.J. pointed out.

With a slight shock, Peter realized that he was already picking up Matt Murdock's bad habits. Unlike the older warrior , however, he needed the water to wash away the bitter after-taste. He downed it in one gulp and quickly slipped his clothes off under her thick, quilted blanket. Then he rolled back over on his stomach.

"M.J.?"

"What is it love?"

"Can I trouble you for a back rub?" he asked, his eyelids fluttering.

"Of course you can." Mary Jane beamed. It was about time he asked. She drew down the blanket, straddled his legs, and gently began rubbing her hands up and down his smooth, bare back, occasionally letting them slip beneath his underwear and touch his hot marble buns.

"Ohhh . . . boy, M.J, that feels sooooohhh good," Peter sighed as he vainly struggled to keep his eyes open. He wanted to reciprocate, but his lack of sleep was finally catching up with him. "Stay with me," he pleaded softly as he began to drift off into the netherworld where dreams and nightmares spawn.

"Shhh, I'm right here," Mary Jane said soothingly as she took off her pants and slipped under the covers herself. As she lay next to him, she felt an enormous sense of happiness that she was keeping her promise to take care of him. In the morning, God willing, his fever would be gone and his vitality, and virility, restored. Never again would he be alone, she vowed. She would always be there to give him a safe haven.

No, M.J. corrected herself, she would always _be_ his safe haven. She turned the light off and kissed him softly on his ear. "I love you so much, Tiger," she whispered as she gently stroked his arm and shoulder. But Peter couldn't answer her. He was already asleep.


	18. Exposure

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**For those of you who have forgotten or are too young to have lived through the 1970s, _streaking_ refers to the act of removing one's clothes and running through a public place, naked. **

**Peter's recollection of Liz Allen is taken, verbatim, from Peter David, _Spider-Man, The Official Novelization of the Film_, (New York, Random House, Inc., 2002), p. 25.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XVIII**

**EXPOSURE**

Mary Jane had barely fallen asleep when she was jolted awake by a deep, guttural groan. Peter lay next to her sweating profusely, still hot with fever. At first she feared he might have been having an allergic reaction to the Ibuprofen. But when she turned on the light to try and rouse him, she saw right away that he was having a nightmare. His groaning grew louder as he started to twist around violently, contorting himself in ways that world-class gymnasts could only envy.

"Hey come on, Pete, wake up," she urged, gently shaking his unnaturally warm shoulder. Suddenly, Peter shouted "Nooooooo!" as his eyes flew open. With a single, powerful leap, he catapulted himself right up to the ceiling. A startled, incredulous Mary Jane managed to flick on the light just in time to see him scuttle across the ceiling and out of the bedroom, like the oversized arachnid he was.

Mary Jane quickly followed Peter into the living room, watching in terrified fascination as he shot around like a juiced up pinball. Unbeknownst to her, he was in the throes of a turbulent stage four sleep, a condition dominated by delta brain waves. In that state, he was able to move around with his eyes open, and even talk, but paradoxically, was barely aware of his surroundings. At one point, he had come extremely close to knocking her down, but as she braced herself for a collision, he somehow managed to veer away from her at the last second, apparently guided by his spider-sense, even when asleep.

"Peter!" Mary Jane cried out anxiously, trying to get his attention. Peter turned toward her, babbling incoherently, although M.J. clearly heard the words, "my fault," more than once. "Come on, snap out of it!" she urged, grabbing him by the arm.

But, driven by subconscious imperatives, he shook her off and started to open her big living room window. "Where is it?" he barked, somehow realizing that he was in a state of undress, but still unaware of Mary Jane's presence other than as a shadowy figure.

M.J. knew right away what "it" was. "In the washer," she responded, having no idea that he was not really talking to her.

As if on automatic pilot, Peter yanked his still-damp costume out of her washing machine and put it on in a sequence that took no more than a few seconds. In full regalia except for the mask, and shivering from the chill caused by fever and moist spandex against his skin, Peter threw open the window and crouched on the sill, getting ready to leap.

"Peter, what the hell are you doing?" Mary Jane shouted frantically, realizing that he would be going outside with his face completely uncovered.

Peter ignored her, focusing on his incorporeal objective as if she were not even there, his spider-sense still responding to a phantom emergency. It was then that she got a good look at his wobbly, highly agitated expression and, to her horror, finally understood that he was only projecting an illusion of being awake. Determined to bring him out of his live-action nightmare before someone saw him without his mask on, she picked up a wooden coaster and slammed it against the coffee table as hard as she could. "Dammit Peter, wake up!" she said sharply, "now!"

M.J.'s voice cut through the darkness enshrouding Peter's mind like a lighthouse beacon. Peter clung to the sound of her voice as though it were a life preserver on a stormy sea, thrown to him from some invisible ship. His eyes locked onto her as he fought his way back to consciousness. He got down off the window sill and rubbed his eyes, his expression changing from agitation to confusion as he shook off the last vestiges of what had turned into a tortured slumber. As he became aware that M.J. was standing in front of him, he slowly reached out and lightly caressed her face and neck. "You . . . you're alright?" he murmured, breathing a huge sigh of relief, as if he had imagined something dreadful happening to her.

Mary Jane smiled, took his hand and kissed it. "You were just having a nightmare," she tenderly reassured him. "But it's over now."

Peter took her in his arms and was about to hug her close when they suddenly felt a cold breeze blast them from outside. With a shock, Peter realized that he was standing in front of an open window and not wearing his mask. He quickly slammed the window shut and closed the blinds, praying that no one, least of all Eddie Brock, had seen them. Baffled and disoriented, he looked around her rather compact living room. "H-how did I end up out here?"

"You were sleep-walking," Mary Jane replied as she gently prodded him away from the window. "Or should I say, 'sleep-crawling.' "

"M-maybe a lot more than that," Peter suggested ruefully, still feeling a residual reaction from his spider-sense, a nagging feeling that something was tapping on his skull from the inside. "You sure you didn't hear anything, any explosions or sirens?"

Mary Jane shook her head. "Not a thing."

Peter looked at her a little sheepishly as he realized what he would have done had she not stopped him. "I . . .I was really gonna go out that window, wasn't I?"

"It sure looked like it," she answered with a soft smile, "Just think of the headline you would've handed Mr. Jameson if you'd forgotten your costume . . ." She gestured as though she were reading a headline printed on the air. "Spider-Man busted for indecent exposure_," _she intoned dramatically.

"I guess I would've taken streaking to a whole new level, huh?" he grinned, his sense of humor returning.

"That you would have," Mary Jane giggled, affectionately rubbing her nose against his. She felt his forehead. "Well, you're still warm," she reported. "Want me to take your temperature again?"

"Yeah . . . s-sure. And thanks for saving m-m-my reputation."

"Don't mention it," Mary Jane said as she took his arm and carefully guided him back into her bedroom. She quickly retrieved her thermometer. "A hundred and one," M.J. indicated, noticing that Peter was starting to shiver. She pinched the wet fabric of his costume between her fingers. "No wonder you're so cold. Why don't you let me run this through the dryer while _you_ get back in bed." She smiled and lightly ran her hands along his backside. "After all, we wouldn't want to freeze these gorgeous little bahoovahoovas off now, would we?"

"No, ma'am." Peter replied dutifully between chattering teeth as he quickly handed her his damp uniform.

Arms akimbo, Mary Jane gazed intensely at Peter as he climbed back into her bed, trying to rein in the desire that seized her at the sight of her lover's muscular back, shoulders and thighs in their natural state. She quickly returned her attention to her immediate priorities, silently reproaching herself for thinking about sex when Peter was just coming through some kind of trauma, not to mention feeling ill.

Peter, meanwhile, wrapped M.J.'s quilt and comforter around himself as tightly as he could. Through the door, he heard the reassuring sound of M.J.'s dryer whirring, interrupted by the beeping of her microwave. A few minutes later, Mary Jane returned carrying a ceramic mug full of hot herbal tea. "Here love," she said soothingly as she sat down on the edge of the bed and extended it to him. "Drink this."

"Th-that's g-good," he sighed as he took a few sips. "Good nursemaids are hard to come by these days." He smiled sleepily up at her.

Mary Jane smiled back. "Nothing but the best for you, honey," She slipped back into bed with him and wrapped her arms around his chest, her limpid emerald eyes once again gazing into his sapphire ones as she tried to fathom what might have gotten him so worked up.

"That must have been some dream," she whispered sympathetically.

Peter gulped down some more tea and put the mug on her night stand. "Yeah," he responded soberly, laying back. "It was."

"Do you remember any of it?" she asked, hoping for a clue as to what might be troubling him.

"Some . . ." he replied as he stared at her ceiling fan, somewhat reluctant to discuss it.

M.J. propped her head up on her elbow and lightly brushed her fingertips across his cheek. "You know, Peter," she said softly, "you might feel better if you talk about whatever's bothering you . . . get it off your chest."

Peter turned to face her. "You sure want to hear this?" he asked cautiously. By nature, he was an intensely private person, habitually reluctant to lay bare his feelings, even to those close to him. "It isn't very pretty."

"I'm sure," Mary Jane reiterated emphatically. "I'm just afraid that if you don't deal with it, you might jump out that window again and wind up exposing yourself . . ." Her eyes widened and her face reddened as she realized that what she said was not quite what she meant. "Your identity . . . I mean," she hastily corrected herself.

Peter cracked a smile at her verbal miscue, thinking how adorable Mary Jane was whenever she inadvertently wound up saying something with sexual connotations. But he knew she was right. What kind of relationship could they have if the things he was hiding from her while awake exploded while he slept? He could really hurt her without meaning to, indeed, without even remembering. Better to open up sooner than later.

"Well, I . . ." he began haltingly, holding her a bit tighter as he struggled to recall the details of his nightmare before they faded from memory. "I was in some sort of ticker-tape parade, you know, riding in an open car down Broadway. Thousands of people were lining the streets, cheering, throwing flowers, holding up Spider-Man banners. I'm really taking it in, thinking that I'm finally getting my due. Suddenly this kid, maybe two or three years old, starts running alongside the car. I think he was yelling for help. . . but I said, 'not now, I'm busy,' or words to that effect. "The next thing I know, the car, the parade, and the people are all gone, and I'm standing on a deserted street, alone, except for that same kid, who's crying. I try to pick him up to comfort him, when he blurts out, 'you didn't save me, did you?' . . ." He drew a deep, shuddering breath. ". . . and bursts into flame. . . like some kind of . . . human torch . . . and . . ."

"And?" M.J. prompted, gently caressing his cheek. "Go on."

"And . . ." Suddenly, he could no longer look at Mary Jane directly. A sharp, intense mental pang warned him not to reveal the rest of it . . . _Mary Jane singing on stage . . . she's so beautiful . . . radiant . . . motorcycle bearing down . . . the gunshot . . . she's falling backwards . . . clutching her throat . . . eyes rolled up inside her head . . ._He turned his face away from her, staring at the clock radio on her nightstand. "Um . . . there was more. . . but . . . I can't remember," he fibbed, hoping to quickly forget the part of his awful dream that, he now realized, had driven him into his somnambulistic frenzy.

Thinking that she fully understood what had prompted her lover's anxiety attack, M.J. wrapped her arms around him and let her head rest on his hard chest. "You have nothing to feel guilty about, Tiger," she said compassionately, "three of the kids you pulled out of that fire are still alive."

Peter stared at her for a moment, an expression of horror on his face. He abruptly pulled himself out of her embrace and bolted up. "What do you mean, three?"

Mary Jane's eyes went wide with shock as she realized what she had done. "Sorry, I meant four," she said reflexively, hoping that she could put that awful genie back in its bottle.

But it was too late. Peter grasped her shoulders and looked straight at her, his eyes boring into her like blue lasers. "What did you hear? Tell me the truth!" He was not angry; he was desperate — desperate not to hear that he had failed to prevent yet another fatality.

Tragically, his hopes would be dashed. "I'm so sorry, Peter" Mary Jane squeaked, twisting her hands nervously. "It was in the news. I swear to God, I thought you knew." If she could have given herself a swift kick in the ass, she would have. _How could you be so goddamn stupid!_ she raged silently at herself. Instead of helping him through his trauma, she was only making it worse.

For the second time that night, Peter Parker jumped out of his lover's bed. He strode through the doorway, turned on the light in the living room and snatched up the _Village Voice_. Its front page reported dispassionately that one of the children that Spider-Man had rescued from a burning tenement, a three-year-old boy, had later died from smoke inhalation at Columbia University Hospital. Terribly upset, Peter dropped the paper on the floor, sat down on the sofa, and hunched forward, burying his face in his hands. "S-s-son of a bitch," he muttered despondently, blinking rapidly to hold back the tears that suddenly threatened. "What the hell went wrong? I got them all out. They were all conscious . . . breathing . . . How could I have blown it so badly. . . ?"

Mary Jane quickly joined him on the couch, intent on undoing the damage she had inadvertently caused. She had thought she understood the depth of his compassion, but until that night, she hadn't really seen it first hand. It was unbelievable to her that, despite everything Peter had accomplished that week, despite his incredible heroics, the death of one child could negate all of that and leave him so distraught. She began to suspect that her enigmatic boyfriend was hiding a much deeper mystery than she had thus far grasped.

"Peter, look at me," Mary Jane said gently as she wrapped her arms around her grieving fiancé's shoulders and turning his stricken face towards her. "No one in the world could have done anymore than you did to rescue that little boy," she declared, inwardly resolving not to let him punish himself for things beyond his control. "But sometimes, things like this happen, and there's nothing we can do about it. And in case you've forgotten, let me repeat; three other kids are still alive because of you, not to mention thousands who might otherwise be suffering from radiation poisoning if you hadn't stopped those crazies."

Peter blinked, but remained silent. Mary Jane wasn't certain if she had gotten through. "Come here, you . . ." she said softly as she nuzzled against him and lightly caressed his chest. "Maybe you don't hear this enough, but you really are a hero. You put your life on the line every single day, far beyond what anyone else would do." She hesitated, wondering if he was finally getting worn down after two years of unrelenting attacks from the editorial page of the _Daily Bugle_. "I hope you're not taking Jameson seriously. That man's a delusional idiot. Believe me, he'll get his someday."

"It isn't just Jameson," Peter sighed, wishing that it were that simple. Mary Jane obviously meant well, but she did not understand. No one could, except possibly Matt Murdock, and he wasn't even sure about that. He turned toward M.J. and squared his shoulders. "The last thing Uncle Ben told me before he died was, 'with great power comes great responsibility.' "

This new revelation intrigued Mary Jane. "Did he know?" she asked.

"I don't think so," Peter answered as he sadly recalled the details of his final conversation with Ben Parker. "He'd heard about my fight with Flash and thought it was just part of growing up. But I don't think he ever really knew the whole story." He quickly returned to his train of thought. "Do you know what that means?" He inquired.

"Um . . .I think so," she replied tentatively, not really sure of what Peter was driving at.

He illuminated her. "Well . . . in my case, with my unusual powers, it means that I'm expected to do things that for an ordinary person would be, 'heroic.' " Peter explained, raising his forefinger in the air to emphasize the point. "The flip side of having these abilities is that I don't have any excuses for not acting, for being too slow, whatever. Maybe if I hadn't stopped to talk with your ex-boyfriend, I might've gotten to that fire in time to get the little kid out . . . or if I had moved a little faster, that cop might still be alive."

Mary Jane had heard on the news that a police officer had been killed in a shootout with the terrorists. _Oh lord_, she groaned inwardly, _he's blaming himself for that, too_. She would put a stop to that bullshit, one way or another. "Peter Parker, that's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard in my life," M.J. said with a loving firmness. "Even you can't save everybody, no one can. You've got to stop holding yourself to unattainable standards." She paused, becoming more animated as she pressed her point. "You really ought to listen to yourself sometime. What kind of a doctor are you going to be if you go into a funk every time you lose a patient? You should be damn proud of what you did this week."

Her fervent, passionate defense of him began to stir his heart and melt away his anguish. "You really think so?" he asked, suddenly very conscious of the warmth of her body. He became entranced with watching those gorgeous green eyes light up whenever she looked at him.

"Absolutely!" M.J. said excitedly. "Did you know that _CNN International_ carried the terrorist story as it was breaking? The whole world knows what a hero Spider-Man is — except maybe J. Jonah Jerkoff."

"Shhhh," Peter gently chided her, barely suppressing a laugh. "It's not polite to speak ill of the dead."

Mary Jane giggled softly at the little zinger he hurled at is former boss, glad that he seemed to be feeling better. "So do yourself, and me, a favor, won't you?" she continued.

"And what is that?"

"Stop listening to those demons of yours," she said insistently. "They're making your life miserable."

Peter gave her a puzzled look, wrinkling his brow in his inimitable, adorably boyish expression. "What demons?"

"Those two little twerps standing on your shoulder, carrying pitchforks, whispering all those terrible things into your ear." She gave him a small, whimsical smile as she touched his right shoulder lightly with her forefinger. "See? They're standing right there."

Peter felt a rush of affection as he pondered his fiancée's little joke. "Do they look like miniature versions of me?" he asked, going along with her playful conceit.

Mary Jane closed one eye and opened the other very wide, pretending to be peering through a magnifying glass. "Well, if you really want to know, one looks like Jameson and he's wearing this little football jersey that says, 'guilt.' "

"And the other?" Peter quipped.

"He looks like Eddie Brock. His jersey says, 'fear.' "

"Why don't you get rid of them?" he laughed.

M.J. inhaled deeply and blew on his shoulder as hard as she could. In her mind, she pictured those two little demons squeaking angrily in high-pitched voices as her breath carried them out the window. "Okay Tiger," she giggled. "They're gone."

"Thank you . . . Mary Ja . . . Maria . . . Giovanna . . . Parker," Peter said, his heart filled with gratitude as he wrapped his muscular arm around her and pulled her in close, marveling at her wisdom as much as her beauty.

Mary Jane gently stroked his face, flashing her fabulous grin, lifting her delectable lips toward his. "Now kiss me you gorgeous hunk," she ordered softly.

He lifted his head off the pillow to comply, and then paused. "But I'm sick, remember?" he pointed out, only half-seriously.

"I'll take my chances," M.J. whispered huskily. But no sooner did their lips fuse together when a siren wailed outside. Reflexively, Peter started to get up. This time, though, Mary Jane stuck her hand against his chest and forcefully shoved him back down again, shaking her head.

"Tiger, _you_ are not going anywhere," she admonished him in a gentle, but firm voice. "You still need to rest. Let the police handle it this time. That's what they get paid for."

"But what if they can't?" Peter fretted anxiously.

"Then let Matt Murdock take care of it," she replied, gazing steadily into his azure eyes. "He's probably on it right now."

Peter's eyebrows went up sharply. "You _know_ Matt?"

Mary Jane smiled enigmatically. "Also known as Daredevil."

Peter could hardly believe his ears. "You mean, he _told_ you?" he asked incredulously. He had great difficulty accepting that a man who guarded his secrets so fiercely would suddenly open up to a perfect stranger.

"Uh huh," Mary Jane confirmed with a nod. "Who do you think warned me about Brock?" She smiled broadly at the endearingly befuddled expression on Peter's face.

"Why would he . . .do . . . that?" Peter inquired slowly, still completely perplexed.

She took him by the shoulders and looked directly into his eyes. "Maybe because he trusts you," she replied earnestly, "enough to trust me."

Peter didn't say anything for several seconds. He felt humbled by his new partner's confidence in him. "He is ultra-cool, M.J.," he said admiringly. "But I'm curious. What do you think of him?"

Mary Jane didn't hesitate to share her thoughts. "In many ways, he's an older version of you," she said meditatively, "I think he's suffered a lot, too."

Peter grimaced. "You're quite right. His father and girlfriend were murdered by the Kingpin . . . better known as Wilson Fisk."

Mary Jane shuddered, remembering how shocked she was when she heard that the nice African-American businessman who donated all that money to Midtown was the biggest mobster in the country, literally as well as figuratively. "Maybe the two of you are long-lost brothers," she kidded lightly in an attempt to change the subject.

"Maybe," Peter smiled at her, and then paused. "You know, M.J., he's a lawyer. He could help us."

"I know that. I met him right after the show. His partner's dating Liz Allen. Remember her?"

"How could I forget Liz Allen?" he quipped. He could still hear Liz growling, _don't even think about it_, as he had tried to sit next to her on that school bus that carried him to his appointment with destiny.

As they lay in bed together, curled up in each other's arms, Peter's eyelids were getting heavy once again. "M.J." he murmured as the world around him grew dimmer.

"Yes, darling?" she whispered.

"When Matt and I were racing through the city trying to shut down those bombs, I was so scared that we wouldn't make it. But you know what?"

"What?" she asked softly, her magnificent green eyes holding him captive.

"When I swung by your billboard and saw your image, I stopped worrying." Peter ran his fingers through her soft, silky red tresses. "I guess what I'm trying to say, Mary Jane, is that . . . I can't survive without you either."

A moment later, he felt her warm teardrops spilling onto his bare chest. "You really know how to make a girl cry, don't you, Tiger," she said, her voice breaking slightly. Carried along by a wave of the most intense passion she'd ever felt in her young life, Mary Jane covered Peter's lips with a kiss that sent fifty thousand volts of electricity surging through their bodies.

"You just better be here when I wake up tomorrow," she playfully warned him as their kiss ended.

"And . . . if I'm not?" he asked teasingly.

She grabbed a chunk of his hair and tugged ever so lightly on it. "I know where you live."


	19. Love Lost and Found

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**Σ'αγαπω (pronounced "S'agapo") means "I love you," in Greek. _See _http/www.translatum.gr/forum/index.php/topic.307.0.html.**

**The U.S.S. Intrepid is a World-War II-era aircraft carrier that now serves as the centerpiece of a maritime museum in New York Harbor.**

**In the federal court system and most state court systems in the United States, the highest court is referred to as the supreme court and the intermediate courts are referred to as the courts of appeal. In New York State, however, the appeals courts are referred to as the "Appellate Divisions of the Supreme Court." _See_ http/www.nycourts.gov/courts/structure.shtml.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XIX**

**LOVE LOST AND FOUND**

The gleaming glass and steel skyscraper dominated the port city of Piraeus, towering over the ancient harbor like a latter-day Colossus of Rhodes. It was the nerve center of a multinational conglomerate whose net worth exceeded the gross domestic product of over a hundred countries. Although cargo shipping was its forte, this modern Greek empire had transcended geographic and commercial borders, acquiring interests in manufacturing, electronics, and numerous other industries around the world. With its two percent stake in _Lorelei_, it even had a toehold in telecommunications and media.

In spite of the tragic loss of its patriarch, the conglomerate hummed on, its far-flung operations running smoothly in the capable hands of trusted subordinates whose loyalty to the founding family spanned generations. The executive suite, which comprised the entire top floor of the global firm's headquarters, had been closed on orders from the company's new chairman, the founder's sole surviving heiress and majority shareholder. It would remain empty, a shrine to a fisherman with an eighth grade education who rose from humble beginnings to become one of the world's richest men.

The chairman's first act upon arrival had been to move her office forty miles east, to her family's villa outside of Legrena. Surrounded by high stone walls that blended naturally into the cliffs upon which it was built, the compound was an impregnable fortress that overlooked the shimmering blue Aegean Sea. In days of old, it might have been used by Agamemnon's army to defend the entire coastline. Within sight of the veranda atop the family quarters lay the ruins of the once magnificent Temple of Poseidon at Cape Sounion.

It was here, to her ancestral home, that Elektra Natchios returned after her miraculous recovery. Although born in America and raised around the world, Elektra's heart was at one with this ancient land and its storied history. She loved the dry brown earth, the olive trees, and the sounds of the sea lapping at the base of the cliff.

Despite growing up in a rarified atmosphere of immense wealth and privilege, Elektra refused to live the life of a pampered heiress. Since childhood, she had been intensely goal-oriented and had a tremendous desire to accomplish something worthwhile on her own. She even shunned Princeton, that venerable Ivy League institution, in favor of the less prestigious, but still well-regarded Rutgers University, a few miles to the northeast. She insisted on working her way through school, teaching martial arts while earning merit scholarships. Having studied with a different sensai every year since she was five, she could draw upon a vast knowledge of techniques and philosophies, weaving together self-defense routines that were both exotic and practical at the same time.

The discipline and hard work yielded dividends. Elektra had graduated summa cum laude with a double-major in economics and classics, landing the highly coveted Henry Rutgers Prize for Scholarship. She had also won a gold medal in Judo for Greece at the 1992 Barcelona games, beating a heavily favored contender from South Korea. Following graduation, she went to work for an investment banking house with ties to _Natchios Ltd._ It was the only door she ever let her father open for her. Once inside that door, however, she made it her mission to prove to her superiors that she deserved to be there. She rose quickly through the ranks, becoming the firm's top arbitrager by the time she reached twenty six.

It was about this time that Nikolas asked Elektra to come work for the company in its New York Office as his principal advisor. Desiring to groom his successor, the old man wanted his daughter to be ready to assume command once he retired or passed on. Tragically, Elektra's moment in the sun would come far sooner than either she or her father would have liked.

Nikolas Natchios had been a man of extraordinary complexities and contradictions. Early in his career, he went after what he wanted with a passion that far too often crossed the line into ruthlessness. Yet he was magnanimous in victory, holding out an olive branch to his vanquished rivals and welcoming them back to the table with substantial stakes in the firm or other rewards for what he termed, "principled stands." In Wilson Fisk, he had found a soul mate, an extremely shrewd businessman with a taste for opulence. Together, they had built a twin-pillared business empire that made the awesome Japanese _Keritsu_ look like small-town mom and pop outfits. For many years, Natchios had heard rumors about his partner's darker side, but chose to ignore them out of his steadfast belief in their friendship, trust, and mutual interdependence.

It was not until a few months before his death, however, that Nikolas finally realized the extent to which _Fiskcorp_ was floating on a sea of blood. Anxious to protect his legacy, he hastily put together an offer for _Fiskcorp_ to buy out all of its joint holdings with _Natchios Ltd_., at an enormous profit. Nikolas knew he would suffer a loss on this deal, but he wanted to make sure that his daughter would never be tainted by his association with the Kingpin. Unfortunately, Nikolas's generous proposition did not sit well with Fisk, who viewed it as an act of betrayal. Notwithstanding their close friendship, notwithstanding that he had once dangled little Elektra on his enormous knee, Fisk had ordered Nikolas's assassination and hers as well. Had Elektra been eliminated, _Natchios Ltd._ would have fallen into the Kingpin's hands, giving him limitless resources to fuel his criminal enterprises. But fate, in the person of Spider-Man, had miraculously intervened.

Upon her arrival at the villa, Elektra was greeted with hugs and expressions of deep sympathy from the household staff, many of whom she had known since she was a little girl. Their grief at the death of Nikolas Natchios was genuine and heartfelt. The late patriarch had always treated his servants with kindness and respect. He had been like a father to many of them, and a kindly old grandfather to their offspring, often surprising the younger ones with little cakes of baklava. The void left in their lives by his passing would be impossible to fill. They pleaded with Elektra to have Nikolas and Christina brought back to Greece for a proper burial in the family tomb. Elektra herself felt that way as well, but Nikolas had always aspired to be American, holding dual citizenship at the time of his death. He was adamant about being buried next to his wife on Long Island when the time came. Elektra regretfully informed her loyal family retainers that she had no choice but to abide by her father's wishes.

She herself had little time for mourning. Her first order of business was to restore the company's reputation, which had been badly tarnished by revelations that her father's former partner had been the absolute ruler of the largest and most powerful crime syndicate in America, and perhaps the world. The fact that most of Nikolas's friends and business associates stayed away from his funeral spoke volumes about the work that lay ahead of her. She was extremely fortunate that the State of New York did not freeze any of _Natchios_ _Ltd._'s assets. That had been a distinct possibility until the District Attorney had presented a mountain of exculpatory evidence, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that Fisk had ordered his subordinates to set up a paper trail implicating Nikolas Natchios as the notorious Kingpin in order to deflect the authorities' attention from himself. It was typical of the way Fisk operated. All charm and smiles in his outward appearance, he would never be satisfied with anything less than the complete and total destruction of his enemies.

Although Elektra had refused to appear at the trial, she did agree to have her deposition taken via conference call. She took comfort in knowing that her testimony had helped to bring about Fisk's conviction and subsequent death sentence. And, as far as she was aware, that subhuman creature who had carried out Fisk's execution order, the one who called himself Bullseye, had been taken out, presumably by the police. Justice had been served.

Elektra methodically set about the task of rehabilitating the good name of _Natchios Ltd_. Armed with facts gleaned from trial transcripts and court documents, she was on the road for weeks at a time, reassuring her company's nervous suppliers, customers, partners, and employees that it had completely severed all of its connections to _Fiskcorp._ Her immense effort had paid off. Those who had done business with the father were willing to take a wait-and-see attitude with the daughter and give her a chance to prove her mettle, which was all she was asking for.

Their faith had been justified. In the seven months since she returned to Greece, Elektra had managed to get the conglomerate back on its feet, restoring _Natchios Ltd._ to its place of glory among the world's top global enterprises. But the stresses of the business had exacted a heavy toll, and by the beginning of the New Year, Elektra had given up traveling altogether. Like Harry Osborn, she preferred to run her empire while remaining safely ensconced in her family fortress. She had settled into an automatic routine, rising before the sun and spending two to three hours every single day in intense martial arts training, especially with the sai. Hundreds of times, she would throw the absurdly long candelabra-shaped daggers at stationary and moving targets, hurling them ten extra times for every miss. After a quick shower and a light breakfast of fruits and Greek cheeses, she would work at a laptop computer for twelve to fourteen hours or more, intensely scrutinizing her company's worldwide operations, making calls, offering and receiving advice, and refereeing disputes when necessary. Her favorite place to work was the veranda, from which she could enjoy magnificent views of the sparkling azure sea and the ruins off in the distance.

But she rarely ventured outside of the villa. When she did, it was always in the company of heavily armed bodyguards. In spite of all her success, wealth, and power, Elektra Natchios was, at heart, a very lonely woman, an orphan who was left deeply scarred by the murders of her parents and her own near-demise. More than anything, she longed for someone with whom she could share the rich bounties of her life, especially a certain blind lawyer from a New York neighborhood called Hell's Kitchen. For reasons she could not even begin to fathom, Matthew Murdock was the only man who had been able to break through her protective granite walls and offer comfort to the sad and frightened little girl hiding behind them. Nikolas himself had smiled in approval when he saw them together at the Black and White Ball. All the old man ever wanted for Elektra was for her to be happy. But the gods, with their bizarre sense of humor, had snatched that happiness away from her without so much as leaving word on whether her lover was dead or alive.

As soon as Elektra was discharged from Columbia hospital, she had a cartouche made with her name inscribed in Braille and left it on the old water tower near Matt's brownstone in the hope that he might remember the promise she had once made to him . . . _I'll find you_. She had just about given up that hope when news flashes began to pour in about a thwarted terrorist attack on New York City. Her eyes widened in amazement when she realized that Matt was not only still alive, but that he and the man who saved her life, this Spider-Man, had waged a spectacular battle against over one hundred Al Qaeda operatives all by themselves, winning a decisive victory in the war against global terrorism.

Elektra's first instinct had been to hop a plane to New York, find Matt, and rush into his arms. But that reflex had been trumped by overwhelming feelings of shame and guilt at having wrongfully accused him of murdering her father. The mere thought of having to face Matt and tell him why she had stabbed him when he was trying to save her life was more than she could bear. Promise or no, she couldn't imagine that Matt would even want her back. "Σ'αγαπω, Matt Murdock," she whispered in the midst of a muffled sob as she gazed westward towards the distant horizon.

The chirping of her cell phone brought her out of her mournful reverie. She quickly composed herself, welcoming anything that would take her mind off the subject of Matthew Murdock.

"Hello Theo," she said in a crisp but pleasant Athenian dialect to her company's chief executive officer. "What do you have for me today?"

For the next few minutes she listened, carefully and intently, as a business proposition was presented to her. Uncharacteristically though, she did not ask any questions. And all she said at the end of the conversation was, "by all means, go ahead and give them whatever they need."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Matt Murdock had arrived at his law office at six o'clock on Thursday morning, an hour earlier than usual and long before the _U Wash Doggy_ pet grooming shop opened next door. He was operating on only three hours of sleep, but the potent combination of adrenaline, caffeine, and percoset kept him alert and focused on the task at hand. He slowly brushed his fingers over pages and pages of dot-covered papers, legal documents written in Braille, pertaining to the case of _Korlon v._ _State of New York_, the first of three death penalty appeals for which he would be engaging the services of his new expert witness, Peter Parker. Peter's extensive knowledge of DNA and sharp analytical skills would be needed to help Matt and Franklin Nelson convince the Appellate Division of the Supreme Court to set aside Joseph Korlon's murder conviction and free him from death row.

Based upon DNA evidence taken from the crime scene, an arrest warrant had been issued for Mr. Korlon, a longtime thief from the South Bronx with a rap sheet as long as the U.S.S. Intrepid. The case looked pretty bleak, but Matt knew that the man was innocent the minute he opened his mouth, even as his partner was rolling his eyes in exasperation at having to handle yet another pro bono criminal matter. Matt had already deposed the arresting officers and the police lab techs on whose trial testimony his client's conviction rested. Unlike the public defenders who originally represented Korlon, he and Foggy were able to blow holes in those witnesses' stories big enough to drive a truck through. Peter's deposition would be the final nail in the coffin, establishing once and for all that the DNA sample taken from Korlon simply did not match the DNA found on the victim's body.

But Foggy had not been too pleased by the decision to bring Peter on board. Although he had given the young man high marks for his performance at the Aziz hearing, he strongly felt that a capital case was not the proper avenue for helping an inexperienced greenhorn cut his teeth, regardless of how brilliant he was. Foggy argued vigorously that sophisticated forensic DNA analysis was best left to credentialed, highly seasoned experts. In Manhattan alone, there were over four hundred consultants to choose from, all of them armed with Ph.D.'s and years of experience.

"That's true," Matt pointed out. "But every single one of them charges no less than fifteen grand per case, and none is available on short notice."

Foggy then tried a different tack, suggesting that they file a motion for a continuance so that they could have enough time to line somebody up. After all, a man's life was hanging in the balance. But Matt insisted on going with Peter, and since he had never been wrong in matters of this magnitude, Foggy relented.

Time was of the essence, however. Peter would have to review the lab reports on Monday and have his deposition taken on Tuesday, so that he could be cross-examined and his statement filed with the appeals court by Thursday morning. Oral argument had been scheduled for Thursday afternoon.

Matt did not worry about things to the extent his partner did. He was absolutely confident of victory, certain that, in Peter, he had picked the right man for the job. The best they could hope for was for the appellate judge to throw out the case completely. But even if she sent it back for a new trial, the eventual outcome would be the same. One way or another, Joe Korlon would be a free man.

At precisely seven o'clock, Matt's cell phone went off. He had it set to vibrate, since the chimes really did a number on his hypersensitive ears. But even on that setting, he could hear the phone as loudly as if it were ringing. "Good morning Peter," he said, able to identify the caller by his powerful heartbeat. "I take it that you've completed your exams?" Normally, Peter would never have called anyone that early in the day, but Matt had given him explicit instructions to do so.

"_Sure have_," Peter whispered enthusiastically, obviously taking care not to wake up Mary Jane. Matt could hear her sleeping next to Peter as clearly as if she were on the sofa in his office. "_When will you need me?"_

"Monday morning at seven sharp," Matt informed him. "I'll have the case file back from the lab and a consulting contract drawn up. You'll be working with Mr. Nelson to prepare for your deposition on Tuesday. We've got a court date a week from today. I realize that I'm not giving you much time, but I'm sure that you can appreciate that tight deadlines are a way of life around here."

"_I understand_," Peter replied reassuringly. "_And don't worry. I pick up this kind of stuff very quickly_."

"I figured as much," Matt responded, listening intently as Peter's breathing suddenly became rapid and shallow, a tell tale sign that their conversation was not yet over. "Anything else?"

"_Actually, there is_," Peter replied, wondering in spite of himself whether there was some sort of psychic component to Matt Murdock's abilities. _"Eddie Brock's been stalking Mary Jane."_ He quickly told Matt about what had transpired in J. Jonah Jameson's office two days earlier.

Matt's response did not give Peter much cause for celebration. "I don't think that Mr. Brock's actions thus far could be considered stalking." Matt said dispassionately. "Realistically, no court of law would view Mr. Brock as doing anything other than pursuing a legitimate news story. As long as he keeps a respectful distance from Mary Jane, he is well within his rights under the First Amendment."

Peter's sigh registered his disappointment and frustration. _"There has to be something we can do, Matt. What about all those celebrities who get restraining orders taken out against scandal rag photographers?_"

"Those situations involved physical trespass," Matt responded, although not without sympathy. After all, he would have those same concerns if he had a girlfriend. But the law was well settled, and unfortunately, there was not much wiggle room. "In one case, the photographer had placed a listening device on the private property of the actress he was targeting," he explained. "And in another, the defendant had been caught on the grounds of the plaintiff's child's school. Do you want me to keep on going?"

"_Okay, I get it,"_ Peter said, trying not to sound dejected. _"I guess this means M.J. and I are on our own. We won't be able to see each other in public, and we'll have to keep our blinds shut all the time . . ."_

"Take it easy Peter,"Matt smiled even as he sensed his new collaborator's building anxiety, amazed as the sometimes serendipitous ways in which a problem finds a solution. "It isn't quite that dire. I mentioned to Mary Jane after the show last night that she should consider moving up to the Kitchen. Although the neighborhood's gotten civilized, it doesn't exactly welcome snooping tabloid journalists with open arms. The sooner she gets here, the quicker she'll drop off Mr. Brock's radar screen."

"_Are there any vacancies?"_

"It just so happens that I have as a client, a landlady who's been in the market for a new tenant for quite a long time. She's got a two-bedroom apartment available at 52nd Street and Ninth Avenue, right on that corner." Matt dictated a name, address, and telephone number, which Peter hastily scrawled on a post-it note. "Have Mary Jane give this lady a call and tell her to use me as a reference."

"_Okay,_" Peter responded. _"Thanks . . . Hey . . .cut it out, M.J. Matt's on the phone. He'll hear you!_"

"_Hi Matt,_" came Mary Jane's soft musical giggle, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of underwear being removed.

"_Sorry Matt . . . I'm under attack here . . . Owwww._" Peter's filtered voice betrayed simultaneous feelings of excitement and embarrassment as Mary Jane pressed her lips against his shoulder and bit down softly, intent on giving him a hickey.

Matt Murdock was grateful that the background noise from his cell phone was blunting the impact of two thundering heartbeats on his ears. He was beginning to feel a bit like a voyeur. "I'm afraid I can't help you there, Peter," Matt said, wishing that his hypersensitive hearing was not so intrusive. "Tend to your affairs and I'll see you Monday morning."

He quickly closed the phone, but was unable to return to his work. His inadvertent eavesdropping on Peter's private life had triggered the memory of another beautiful young woman whose image flashed through his mind. Fighting back tears, he reached into his pocket and tenderly held the cartouche inscribed with her name, savoring every one of the dots that formed its letters.

Finding female companionship was never a problem for Matthew Murdock. Finding a meaningful relationship after Elektra would be next to impossible. He felt close to her from the moment he first spotted her in _Mickey's Coffee Shop_. They were two of a kind, scions of the warrior class. He never felt with anyone else the magic that he had with Elektra, before or since. When he found her necklace with the Braille inscription of her name, his heart exploded with joy, fueling his hope for the miracle of her return. But as the months passed, that hope began to fade. His ivy-league lawyer's mind grudgingly accepted the perfectly rational explanation that she had the cartouche made before her father was killed, and that she had lost it during the battle with Bullseye. After all, he was holding Elektra in his arms when he heard her heart give out. Her bodyguards must have spirited her body away before the police arrived.

Resigned to the fact that Elektra wasn't coming back, Matt wearily opened his little Braille book and caressed its pages in search of a date for Friday night.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

It was the most glorious morning that Peter had ever woken up to. He had the love of his life in his arms and three new jobs in his pocket. The last one, a freelance photography gig with the _New York Times, _had fallen into his lap courtesy of Ben Urich, who had arranged for an interview during their regular Wednesday lunch together. The _Times_ editor had been so impressed with Peter that he offered him the gig right on the spot, with a guarantee to pay him at twice the _Daily Bugle_'s rate.

But at that moment, work was the furthest thing from Peter's mind. No sooner had he hung up the phone when Mary Jane was on top of him, every erogenous zone on her gorgeous body near the peak of arousal.

As usual, Peter tried to play it cool. "Uh . . . how are you feeling, M.J?" he asked in his inimitably low-key fashion while she nibbled on his ear.

"Head over heels in love . . . and horny as hell," she replied, playfully tousling his hair. "In case you didn't remember, _Mr_. Parker, this was the week I was supposed to be on my honeymoon."

"I see." Peter wasted no time exploiting the opening she had left for him. "But what if your husband comes back and finds us in bed together?"

_Whaaaack!_ Mary Jane's pillow struck him full in the face. He saw it coming, but didn't even try to avoid it. "Your wiseguy attitude isn't gonna get you out of this one, Spider-Man," M.J. said with a wicked, seductive laugh as her fingertips lightly brushed his rock-hard pecs. "You're all mine!" She crushed her lips against his, prying open his eagerly accepting mouth and extending her tongue past his teeth. Then she pushed his hand downward, moaning in joyous ecstacy as tiny jolts of electricity surged through her hairy, swollen mons veneris. Her moans turned to screams when the burning object of her most ardent desires entered her body, triggering one incredible orgasm after another.

After a climactic eternity that lasted well over five minutes, Mary Jane heard a tiny gasp escape Peter's lips as he withdrew. A few seconds later, she felt a warm spray tickle her midriff as lightly as a soft spring rain. Cooing like a dove, she laid her head against his chest and gently stroked what she now regarded as her own personal plaything. "Spider-Stud, Spider-Stud," she sang between giggles, "Makes those other guys look like crud."

"Mary Jane Watson, you have such a dirty mind," a mildly embarrassed Peter mockingly scolded, his face turning as red as his still-erect organ.

"I'm such a bad girl, aren't I, Tiger?" Mary Jane laughed, quite pleased with her X-rated rendition of the now famous street ditty. "But hey, at least I got it to rhyme."

M.J.had correctly surmised that her lover had inherited a certain amount of prudishness about all matters sensual from his aunt and uncle, a trait that she found wonderfully endearing. But she took immense pride in being privy to the best-kept secret on the planet: that behind Peter Parker's facade of modesty hid an enormously skillful, passionate, and well-endowed tiger who knew instinctively how to bring a woman to the height of emotional and sexual fulfillment. _No, _she thought slyly, _not a tiger . . . a BULL. _

She kept gazing at him, doe-eyed, as she continued her intimate massage. _And yet, _she reflected, _all those women who want to get into his pants wouldn't give him the time of day if they saw him without his costume_. Not her. She was madly in love with Peter Parker, the shy, sensitive boy next door, not his hotshot superhuman alter-ego. She had given up everything to be with him, putting her career, her reputation, and maybe even her life in jeopardy. As far as Mary Jane was concerned, she was the only one who had earned the right to see him in a state of nature, share a bed with him, and touch his body in special places.

"Would you like to take a shower with me?" she whispered.

"Is that a request, M.J?" Peter teased.

She gently squeezed his sack of jewels. "No."

Two hours later, their passions spent, their bodies still tingling from intense lovemaking, they sat down to breakfast at _Chez Emzhay_.

"Do you always eat so fast?" Mary Jane wondered aloud as she watched Peter devour the pancakes she had set in front of him. She had barely made a dent in her own stack.

"For me, this is slow," he replied between bites. "These are really good, M.J. Maybe we should put you on_ Food Network_, right between _Emeril_ and _Wolfgang Puck_."

"Peter, it's only a mix." she pointed out, grateful nonetheless that he appreciated her culinary efforts. As she watched him finish his last mouthful of syrup-soaked flapjacks, she caught a mischievous gleam in his eyes.

"Peter Parker, just what are you thinking about?" she queried.

"How real Spiders eat," he answered with his wry, nonchalant smile, "want me to show you?"

Mary Jane shrugged her shoulders. "Sure."

Peter suddenly got up from his chair and advanced on her. "First they paralyze their victims with their venom, like this" he grinned wickedly, as if he were baring fangs. "Then they cocoon them and suck out their juices while they're still alive . . ." Raising his arms like he was going to spin a web, he grabbed Mary Jane, who pretended to be cowering. With no effort at all, he lifted his beautiful girlfriend off her feet and pulled her in close for yet another prolonged, passionate kiss.

"Mmmm, maple syrup," she grinned as she tasted his lips. "Some venom."

Peter insisted on cleaning up afterward. "Watch this," he said excitedly. In less than two minutes, he had rinsed the dishes, put them in the dishwasher, and wiped down the table.

"And who says men aren't useful around the house," Mary Jane observed merrily. "The job's yours, love."

"What job?"

"Busboy," she laughed as she glided back into his arms. "You can wash my dishes any time." Their lips were about to merge again when the telephone rang. Mary Jane frowned when she saw the name that appeared on her caller ID. It was the agent from the rental office, reminding her for the fourth time to vacate her apartment so that it could be made ready for the new tenants.

"I understand, Phyllis," M.J. replied, rolling her eyes in annoyance at having been so rudely interrupted. "I'll be out on time." Exasperated, she hung up the phone.

"Is there a problem, M.J.? Peter asked, concerned.

"Oh, nothing," she replied with a little bit of uncharacteristic edginess in her voice. "Other than the fact that in a little over a week, I'll have no place to live."

"Why don't we check out the apartment that Matt recommended?" Peter suggested. "If you like it, you could sign the lease and we can have you all moved in by tomorrow."

It did not escape Mary Jane's notice that Peter had left himself out of that equation. But she decided not to broach the subject of moving in together until they actually saw the place for themselves. "Great idea," she responded, heading back into the bedroom to get dressed. Gesturing toward the kitchen, she called out, "Would you get a couple of subway tokens out of that cookie jar?"

But Peter had other ideas. "We won't need those, M.J." he grinned as he retrieved his costume from her dryer. "I thought you might want to take the express."

Mary Jane's face lit up. "Would I ever!" she said excitedly, eagerly anticipating a fabulous flight from Greenwich Village to Hell's Kitchen.

She would not be disappointed.


	20. A Threshold Moment

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**The reference to Stanley Leiber comes from Peter David, _Spider-Man 2: The Official Novelization of the Film_ (New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2004), pp. 91-93. Known to the world as Stan Lee, Mr. Leiber is the creative genius who thrilled two generations of kids, your humble author included, and made all this possible. Thanks Stan. **

**Mary Jane's piggy-back ride is drawn from Peter David & Mike Wieringo, _Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man No. 4 - The Other - Evolve or Die, Part 10_ (March 2006).**

**The reference to the Queensboro (59th Street) Bridge comes from: Peter David, _Spider-Man - The Official Novelization of the Film_ (New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2002), p. 292. In the movie, Mary Jane nearly slips and falls of the western tower of the bridge. Photographs of the real bridge, however, show that there are railings in place which would prevent that from happening. To remain consistent with the movieverse, I have chosen to leave the railing off.**

**Peter's line warning Mary Jane not to go looking for the cat is a reference to _Alien, _Copyright 2004 by 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., All Rights Reserved. **

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XX**

**A THRESHOLD MOMENT**

Stanley Martin Leiber had seen most everything in his eighty-plus years. There were very few surprises that life could throw at him anymore, not the least of which was a bizarre auto chase that ended with a police car being suspended in mid-air by nothing but thread. Until that spectacle had unfolded in front of him, Mr. Leiber was thoroughly convinced that Spider-Man was a gimmick dreamed up by Madison Avenue to sell more dishwashing fluid. But even after he had seen the webslinger's handiwork dangerously up close, he steadfastly maintained that not even red and blue lightning could strike twice in the same place. On this bright, sunny Thursday morning, he would be thoroughly disabused of that notion.

While walking Beaufort, his fox terrier, the old man stopped on a street corner to chat with a neighbor. He had gotten so absorbed in the conversation that he dropped the dog's leash without realizing it. No sooner had Mr. Leiber released his hold on Beaufort when one of nature's gymnasts bolted down the side of a tree and shot past the dog, into the street. Driven by thousands of years of canine instincts, Beaufort took off after the swift grey squirrel . . . straight into the path of an oncoming taxi.

"Beaufort, stay!" Leiber screamed, certain that the animal was doomed. But before he could even take a step, he felt a breeze and saw that now-familiar streak of red and blue . . . _and pink?_ And then suddenly, Beaufort was back on the side walk, tied to a lamp post half a block away. The little terrier seemed none the worse for the wear.

As he was hurrying over to Beaufort, Stanley Leiber happened to catch a fleeting glimpse of Spider-Man, just before the webslinger took off again. He very nearly had a coronary. _My God, he's got eight legs!_ Leiber thought frantically. Four of those legs appeared to be growing out of the wallcrawler's back.

"Okay, you dopey hound," Leiber ordered as he untied his faithful companion. "That's the end of our walk. Let's get the hell home." Thankfully, the dog did not put up any resistance.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"Whoooopeeeeee!" Mary Jane Watson yelled as she and Peter Benjamin Parker swooped down from the skies at a speed and angle that made the roller coasters at Coney Island seem like merry-go-rounds. Peter's spider-sense had gone off, alerting him to the fact that a dog was chasing a squirrel into heavy traffic. Timing the release of his webline perfectly, he scooped up the dog with one hand and the squirrel with the other, all before his feet touched the ground. He gently released the squirrel onto the sidewalk as he landed. Then he quickly secured the dog to a streetlight so that his master would find him.

With Mary Jane strapped tightly to his back, he once again zoomed toward the Met Life Building. It wasn't exactly the Fortress of Solitude, but for a superhero on a budget, it would do nicely. After his latest demonstration of extreme gymnastics, he wanted to make sure that his fiancée's face was not the same color as her eyes.

But M.J. proved to be quite resilient. "Show off," she laughed as they alighted on top of the long-abandoned heliport.

"Just braking for animals," Peter retorted modestly, relieved that Mary Jane was able to handle his more difficult maneuvers. "How's your camouflage holding up?"

M.J. tugged at the olive-colored billed cap and sunglasses she was wearing to avoid being recognized, held in place by extremely thin, but unbreakable web strands. Then she shook her head from side to side. The cap remained solidly in place. "Fine," she reported.

It had taken Mary Jane a while to put the disguise on. Peter had to help her stuff her hair under the cap and fashion the webbing so that it wouldn't stick to her face, an extremely delicate operation that took several tries. Unfortunately, the cap did not go well with her pink warm-up suit. In fact, it did not go at all. But in the interests of staying hidden from prying eyes, especially those of a certain reporter from a particular tabloid, Mary Jane did not quibble.

Likewise, she did not complain about having to carry his clothes on her back. She had watched in awe as he spun a makeshift web sack and quickly stuffed his shirt, slacks, shoes, and jacket inside. "It won't mess up your outfit," he had promised as he sealed up the open end of the sack and gingerly placed it across her shoulders, like a knapsack, just before they took off from the roof of her building.

"Are you okay, Tiger?" Mary Jane asked, hoping that Peter was not having second thoughts about the lease they had just signed.

"Sure, M.J.," he replied. "I like the place . . .really."

Acting on Matt Murdock's tip, they had managed to find a spacious apartment in the heart of Hell's Kitchen, a Shangri-la hidden within an urban jungle full of bars, strip joints and adult bookstores. The place boasted a cathedral ceiling with skylights and fans, a loft with its own veranda, and a jacuzzi-style tub in the master bathroom, complete with hot water jets. The only reason the apartment was still on the market after nearly a year was that its previous occupant had been a mobster named Jose Quesada. Quesada was a ruthless under-boss in the Kingpin's criminal empire who had met his end under the most gruesome of circumstances. That, together with the Kitchen's reputation for violence was enough to scare away many prospective tenants, which proved to be a boon for the newly-engaged young couple.

Peter, however, had been a little hesitant. At first, he hadn't intended to move in with Mary Jane, preferring instead to wait until after they got married, a few months hence. But M.J.'s charm proved irresistible, and when she turned his own signature lost-puppy expression right back on him with those magnificent eyes of hers, he caved . . . and signed.

"Are you sure we can handle the rent?" Peter asked tentatively.

Although it had only been five days since they became engaged, Mary Jane already knew her fiancé well enough to gauge his feelings. She could still detect a faint trace of reluctance in his voice.

"Peter, that's not a problem," M.J. patiently reassured him for the third time. With her trademark smile, she added, "You should feel privileged that I'm letting you contribute." Until then, Peter had no idea how much money she was pulling down between her acting gig and her modeling contract with _Emma Rose._ When she didn't flinch at the amount the landlady quoted, Peter realized that she was doing a lot better than he had previously imagined.

She pressed her cheek softly against his masked face. "You're worried about telling Aunt May, aren't you?"

"Is it that obvious?"

"When you called her, you had this look on your face like you were going to the principal's office."

"Well, Aunt May was always harping on how I need to hold onto that insurance money. She wouldn't even let me help her out when she was behind in her mortgage payments on the old place. I can only imagine how she'll feel when she finds out that half that money's gone."

"So what?" Mary Jane pointed out. "You'll have it replenished in no time, once you start working again." She turned his hidden face toward her and gazed deeply into his mirrored eyepieces, slightly bemused at her distorted reflection. "Come on, Pete," she inquired lovingly, "What's really bothering you?"

"Um . . .uh . . . you and I . . .", he stammered, his thoughts in a jumble as he suddenly reverted back to his old form. "We . . . well, you know, we . . ." From the way Peter's tongue was getting all tied up in knots, Mary Jane knew exactly what he was finding so difficult to articulate.

"We had sex," she said with a soft giggle, imagining how red his face must have been getting behind that mask.

"Twice," Peter added anxiously. "You know how Aunt May is about these things. She might worry that you're pregnant."

"No she won't," Mary Jane reassured him. She found it utterly amazing that this frail old woman could put the fear of God into her god-like nephew. "You know what I think?"

Peter shook his head.

"She'll be thrilled once she sees the ring." Mary Jane said optimistically. "Now will you please stop worrying? You're starting to get me nervous."

"I'm sorry about that, M.J. Really. But sooner or later, we'll have to tell her that we're moving in together." He was beginning to feel the combined weight of numerous catechism classes, altar boy stints, and his aunt's deeply held convictions, all of which came down firmly against living together outside of holy matrimony.

M.J. had an answer for that too. "How's about we fly out to Las Vegas this weekend?" she asked seductively, lightly touching his spandex-covered brow. "Then you can move in right after we get back."

Peter laughed in spite of his misgivings. "At least we wouldn't have to live in sin." He waited for her response.

It did not come. Instead, he felt her chin lift off his left shoulder.

Turning his face toward her's he quickly understood why Mary Jane had suddenly fallen silent. She was staring straight ahead, in a northeasterly direction, toward the East River. Following her gaze, his eyes fell upon the 59th Street Bridge, the very place were, eighteen months ago, Mary Jane Watson had almost lost her life at the hands of a madman.

When M.J. spoke again, it was with a steely determination. "I want you to take me over there, Pete." She pointed to the bridge.

Peter's jaw fell inside his mask. "Why?" he asked, unable to believe that she really wanted to go back to the scene of her ultimate nightmare, and his for that matter.

"To use your words, there's something I've got to do."

It didn't take Peter long to figure out what was on Mary Jane's mind. "The western tower?" he asked, trying to hide his anxiety.

She nodded affirmatively. "Don't worry," she said with a gentle firmness, acknowledging his unspoken concerns. "I know what I'm doing. So please, don't get all bent out of shape over this."

But Peter was already bent out of shape. He was not happy at all about M.J. deliberately choosing to relive one of the most horrifying experiences of both their lives. He did not try to talk her out of it, however. He had made a solemn promise to her that he would respect whatever decisions she made, and he was not about to renege on that promise. He would just have to swallow his misgivings and keep his anxieties to himself. After checking to make sure she was secure, Peter took off, his heart in his throat.

In less than two minutes, they had arrived at the rusting, hundred-year-old span. As he climbed up the ancient girders to the platform straddling the westernmost of its four towers, he could not help wondering whether it would crumble beneath their feet. As soon as they mounted the platform, he quickly glanced around to see if they had been spotted. The mid-day traffic in and out of Manhattan was still flowing uninterrupted beneath them. On the river, a barge was approaching from the South. None of the deck hands were looking in their direction. And, thankfully, no one on the Roosevelt Island tram had seen them either. It was all a normal scene, a far cry from the mayhem and destruction that had occurred here less than two years ago.

"Cut me loose," Mary Jane ordered firmly.

"Okay, M.J.", he replied as he snapped the web strands that had kept her from slipping off his back. "But if anybody gets a bead on us, we move. Capito?"

"Understood," Mary Jane agreed. "I promise, this won't take more than a minute."

It would be a very long minute for Peter. M.J. closed her eyes and drew a few deep breaths, as if preparing herself for a fire-walk. Opening her eyes, she stepped right up to the south edge of the platform, to the very spot where she nearly fell after awakening from a sleep induced by a forcefully administered anesthetic. Her breathing became more labored as she gritted her teeth, stood at the edge of the platform, and stared straight down at the river, silently daring the Green Goblin to reach up from the very depths of hell and try to grab her again. "I . . . AM . . . NOT . . . AFRAID . . ." she proclaimed with a shout, knowing that no one except Peter, and maybe Matt if he were paying attention, could hear her.

As for Peter, he just stood there, not saying a word, his heart pounding. He was watching her intently, ready to respond in an instant if she lost her balance, or, God forbid, slipped. He wondered if she could hear the Goblin's maniacal cackling in the back of her mind, the way he could.

As the seconds ticked away, Mary Jane's breathing slowed down and she became more visibly relaxed. Stepping back from the edge of the platform, she turned toward Peter, a big, broad, toothy smile spreading across her face. Suddenly, the purpose of this outwardly bizarre ritual became clear to him. She had professed to wanting to help him conquer his demons, but recognized that she would have to walk the walk and conquer her own demons first. And she did it, entirely on her own, without any prompting from him at all. Her willingness to face down her fears moved him deeply.

"You've got balls, lady," Peter said as she glided into his arms for a passionate embrace.

"I love you, Tiger,"she whispered as their lips came together.

"Does this mean we can go now?" Peter asked when their kiss broke, anxious to get out of there as quickly as possible. The bridge was already bringing back too many ugly memories for him.

"Absolutely," Mary Jane practically sang as Peter spun them a fresh set of web-straps. It took a little longer for him to complete the cocooning process because the platform was so narrow. When he finished, he checked the webbing three times to make sure she was locked down tight. Just before taking off, he saw their combined shadow on the steel grid beneath their feet. He pointed it out to M.J.

"Ugh!" she cringed. "We look like some carnivorous alien life form."

"Just don't go looking for that cat by yourself," Peter kidded as he leaped into the void, fired a webline at the second tower of the Queensboro Bridge, and headed off in an easterly direction, toward Forest Hills.


	21. Girl Talk

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**Peter Jennings, the outstanding anchor for ABC news, passed away on August 7, 2005.**

**William Tecumseh Sherman was the Union general whose forces laid waste to Atlanta and much of Georgia during the "March to the Sea" campaign of 1864, near the end of the American Civil War. He once wrote that the "crueler (a war) was, the sooner it would be over."_ See_ Toby Rowland-Jones, _Civil War Generals_ (Williamsburg Virginia, Bicast Publishing, 2000), pp. 28-29.**

**_ConEd_ is short for _Consolidated Edison_, the utility company that provides electricity, gas, and steam services to New York City. **

**Belle and Manny Rosen were characters in _The Poseidon Adventure. _Copyright 2005 by 20th Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., All Rights Reserved.**

**The Yiddish phrase _kain ein hores _translates into, "no evil eyes!" or "don't give me canaries." The expression itself is a warning not to bring bad luck upon oneself by talking too much. **

**In Chess, a gambit is defined as a sacrifice of a minor piece that a player makes in the hopes of gaining an advantage. **

**Parts of the conversation between Mary Jane and Aunt May are drawn from _The Amazing Spider-Man, No. 38, _"The Conversation" (February 2002). **

**In the novelization of the first Spider-Man film, Peter had been keeping diaries, in the form of letters to his parents. This element of the story never made it to the screen, but serves as background here. _See _Peter David, _Spider-Man - The Official Novelization of the Film_ (New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2002), pp. 16-18, 27-28, 100-103, 310-11. **

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XXI**

**GIRL TALK**

The towering skyscrapers of Manhattan afforded Peter Parker the complete freedom to move at any speed and altitude he was capable of achieving. Once outside that environment, however, navigation became more cumbersome, as Peter knew from his many trips to Forest Hills. He usually dealt with this problem by riding his moped or taking the subway. But today, since time was of the essence, he took the scenic route, leaping across rooftops at a mere seventy five miles per hour, not even feeling Mary Jane's weight.

The two lovebirds landed in an alley very close to the apartment complex in which May Parker now lived. With Mary Jane acting as a lookout, Peter donned his street clothes in less than ten seconds. Discarding the remnants of the web sack in a trash can, they hurried out of the alley and found themselves directly across the street from the West Helmsley Village Tower.

Peter had never seen his aunt's new apartment. For reasons he could not quite figure out, she had repeatedly declined his offer to help her unpack and settle in. Although he gave Aunt May kudos for wanting to maintain her independence, it was his considered opinion that she could be very stubborn sometimes, much to his chagrin.

Mary Jane and Peter spoke not a word as they walked through the small, unadorned lobby and rode up the elevator. The complete absence of any kind of security set-up was a disturbing reminder of how little May Parker could afford. And the grimace on Peter's face spoke volumes to Mary Jane about his guilt over not being able to support his aunt the way he had always intended. _But that's all going to change_, he resolved, _starting today_.

"Let's see," Peter said as they stepped off the elevator and onto the seventh floor. Turning left, they found themselves in the main corridor. A small sign across from the elevator bank told them that they needed to turn left again. They walked slowly down the hallway. " . . . 702 . . . 706 . . . Here it is." They stopped in front of number 710.

"Just a minute," They heard Aunt May call out when Peter knocked at the door. Not wanting to spoil the surprise, he quickly covered Mary Jane's left hand.

The door opened a few seconds later.

"Hi, Aunt May!" Peter said excitedly as May Reilly Parker appeared in front of him, silhouetted by sunlight streaming in from her living room window, her salt-colored hair in it's usual tight bun.

"Peter!" May exclaimed happily as she reached out to embrace her nephew.

Then she saw who was with him.

"Hello, Aunt May," Mary Jane said with a soft smile, her hands behind her back.

May hesitated for barely a second. There was something in her dark brown eyes, an expression that seemed to reflect a clash between elation and heartbreak. But it had vanished so fast that it did not even register with Peter or M.J. Neither of them sensed anything amiss.

And that was exactly the way May Parker wanted it, at least for the moment. The glow on her face brightened as she gathered them in for a prolonged group hug. M.J. found her embrace to be strong and vibrant for someone so fragile-looking.

Aunt May released them and gave her nephew the quick once-over. "Thank goodness you don't have those dreadful bags under your eyes," she said. "Don't tell me that you've finally had a decent night's sleep."

"Finals are over," Peter replied. "I can get a little more rest now."

"Did your exams go well?"

"I'm sure I did okay," he nodded in his typical, _aw-shucks_ fashion, knowing in his heart of hearts that he did far better than that.

Aunt May meanwhile, had turned to Mary Jane. "And you, M.J., you look positively radiant." In all the years she had known this now-strikingly beautiful young woman, she couldn't remember ever seeing her so happy.

"We've got some news for you," Peter said as he lightly draped his arm around his aunt's small frame.

"It better not be that Mary Jane is expecting," May replied impishly.

M.J. giggled, knowing that the old woman was only teasing.

Peter, on the other hand, nearly jumped back as his face turned bright red. "No . . . oh God, no. It's nothing like that." As he revealed the ring, he gave his fiancée a quick, _what-did-I-tell-you_ look, which she merrily shrugged off.

Aunt May was practically weeping with joy as she hugged Mary Jane first, then Peter. "Only last week, I'd completely given up hope that this day would ever come," she said tearfully as she held Mary Jane's hand up close, admiring the fiery heart-shaped diamond. "It's absolutely beautiful."

_And where did you get the money to pay for this, young man?_ Peter thought, anticipating the question that was sure to follow.

Much to his surprise, that question never came. Aunt May simply escorted the newly-engaged couple into her tiny, but well-kept apartment. Peter looked around, amazed that he could be so wrong about how quickly his aunt would settle into her new place. He had expected that all those unpacked boxes would be stacked in the middle of the living room. But there was not a box to be seen, nor a shred of packing foam. Instead, the furniture was arranged exactly the way it had been at their old house, right down to the twenty-year-old Sony television set, resting on its brown metal stand like a sentry in front of the worn, long-faded old sofa. And the little knick-knacks that May had collected over the years were all neatly in place. It was as if she had always been living here.

May had been watching her favorite television show, _The View_, while waiting for her guests to arrive. Barbara Walters and her cohorts were discussing the latest antics of Jessica and Nick when suddenly, ABC News cut away from them with an announcement heralding a special report.

"Sit down," Aunt May urged, gesturing toward the couch as Peter Jennings appeared. He was standing near the West Wing of the White House prepping the TV audience for an unscheduled presidential news conference. "You're just in time."

"For what?" Peter asked, wondering what was so important.

"It looks like the President's coming on," she replied. "I think he's going to say something about last Monday."

Neither Peter nor Mary Jane had any interest in politics, and neither of them was old enough to vote in the controversial presidential election of 2000. But they quickly took their seats. It had been widely reported that the narrowly averted terrorist attack in New York City had prompted the President to announce his choice for CIA director a week earlier than anticipated.

Just as the President was approaching the podium in the East Room of the White House, the television screen turned snowy. Aunt May immediately put down the tea kettle she had just picked up, stepped around the sofa, and adjusted the rabbit ears. The picture returned just as the President had mounted the rostrum and was getting ready to address the White House press corps. "There, that's better," she said as she returned to the task of serving tea.

_Damn,_ Peter thought sadly, _she doesn't even have cable anymore_.

"_Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm gonna git right to it,"_ the President intoned in his inimitable Texas twang. _"Three days ago, a large Al Qaeda force had infiltrated the United States and had attempted to inflict grave loss of life and harm to property by setting off incendiary nuculer devices throughout the New York City subway system . . ."_

Peter smiled with bemusement at the President's seeming inability to correctly pronounce the word, "nuclear."

" _. . . But fortunately, through the tireless efforts of the FBI, the NYPD, and some very brave and alert private citizens who stepped forward and put their lives on the line when time was running out, the plot was detected and stopped in its tracks. All of the alleged terror suspects have been taken into custody . . ."_

Not even the modest and humble Peter Parker could hold back the enormous surge of pride that anyone in his position would feel at being personally acknowledged by the President of the United States. He understood that the President could not mention Spider-Man or Daredevil by name, and did not feel slighted in the least. In fact, he actually felt relieved that the nation's security needs coincided with his own.

He had no way of knowing that the President had insisted on including the laudatory language in his remarks, against the recommendations of his national security advisors.

" _. . .Our enemies are the enemies of freedom. Their commitment to our destruction is unwavering, and their sophistication is growing . . ."_

Aunt May had been standing behind the couch. Consequently, she did not see the huge smile breaking out on her nephew's face. But she did see Mary Jane and Peter holding hands while the President was speaking. And when the Commander-in-Chief remarked about "some very brave and alert private citizens," she saw M.J. grip Peter's hand a little tighter.

Had Peter or Mary Jane turned around, they would have seen in Aunt May's eyes that strange, incomprehensible look of pride and grief colliding with each other. Blinking back tears, she returned her attention to the press conference.

Standing next to the President was a four-star army general with a ramrod-straight back and a chest full of medals and ribbons. He sported a silver crew cut, thick black eyebrows, and an even thicker silver moustache. His aged, wrinkled face accentuated an appearance of battle-hardened toughness, like old leather boots that had been repeatedly exposed to nature's harshest elements and somehow managed to hold together.

Peter's eyes widened in surprise as he recognized the general. "M.J., do you know who that is?"

Mary Jane shrugged her shoulders. "No idea, love."

" _. . . It is my honor and privilege to nominate General Thaddeus Ross for the post of Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. . ."_

"You remember when Connors mentioned that he knew Dr. Ross at Columbia?"

"Is that her husband?" M.J. asked, still picturing Betty Ross to be much older than she actually was.

"It's her father." Peter knew of General Ross from having thoroughly read his daughter's biography nearly a dozen times. "This is the guy who chased Bruce Banner halfway across America," he informed Mary Jane, his voice tinged with awe.

_And lived to tell about it, amazingly enough_, M.J. thought, feeling a tad intimidated just watching General Ross on television. There was something about the man's appearance, maybe his narrow head and throwback hair style that briefly reminded her of J. Jonah Jameson. She quickly put that notion to rest, however. Where the tabloid publisher was all bluster, the general was all business. His stone-faced expression seemed to convey a warning that he did not tolerate fools, much less suffer them.

"He must eat rocks for breakfast, lunch, and dinner," M.J. commented uneasily.

" _. . . Thunderbolt Ross has served our country with uncommon valor and distinction for the better part of four decades_. _He brings to the table a vast wealth of knowledge and experience in all phases of national security . . ." _

To Aunt May, Ross looked like the second coming of General Sherman. "I'm sure he's a good man if the President picked him," she countered even as she wondered who in blazes Bruce Banner was.

General Ross took the podium, speaking with a baritone Texas accent far more pronounced than the President's. His voice sounded like the growl of an angry bear. _"Thank you, Mr. President. I am deeply honored and humbled by the confidence and trust you have placed in me by asking me to lead this storied institution. The threats our nation faces from within and without are greater than at any time in our nation's history . . ." _

As she watched Thunderbolt Ross accept his nomination, Mary Jane detected a trace of reticence in the general's body language. The now-seasoned actress could readily distinguish genuine reactions from practiced ones, and she could not help thinking that the general was less than enthusiastic about taking the job for which he had just been chosen.

Her thoughts were interrupted as Aunt May asked Peter. "Were you able to get any pictures of Spider-Man capturing the terrorists?" She sounded somewhat inquisitive.

Peter also recognized a probing undertone in his aunt's question, which seemed a bit out of character for her. "Uh . . .no . . ." he replied neutrally. "Spider-Man didn't give me a heads up on this one. And by the time the story broke, the police had the whole building cordoned off. No one could get in or out." As an afterthought he added, "I don't think Spider-Man's going to let me take his picture anymore."

"Well, I'm very happy to hear that!" May exclaimed. But a momentary narrowing of her eyes gave M.J. the distinct impression that the old woman knew she had just been lied to and was merely going along with her nephew's line. It was hardly perceptible, however, and was quickly covered over by a heartfelt expression of gratitude and admiration that sent Peter soaring among the clouds. "I think that Spider-Man and his friend showed an awful lot of courage in doing what they did. Lord knows what would have happened if they weren't there to help." She picked up the telephone. "And I'll tell you something else," she said, a hint of disgust creeping into her voice. "I'm sick and tired of all those terrible lies Mr. Jameson's been spreading about Spider-Man. I'm canceling my subscription to the _Daily Bugle _right now."

Mary Jane could see how hard it was for Peter to maintain his air of impartiality. As she watched him struggle to keep from grinning, she couldn't help gloating inwardly herself about what a blow to her almost-father-in-law's reputation the President's endorsement of Spider-Man's actions must have been. _Print_ _THAT_ _on your front page, you cheap scandalmonger,_ she thought contemptuously.

May suddenly lowered the phone. "Maybe I shouldn't cancel just yet," she said. "I wouldn't want to hurt your livelihood."

As always, Peter was profoundly touched by his aunt's boundless concern for his welfare, not that a single subscription would actually make a difference. "You can cancel if you want to, Aunt May," he told her. "I don't work for the _Daily Bugle_ any more. I'm sure you know why."

"Oh dear, that's right," May said as she put the phone down, remembering who Mary Jane had walked away from to be with her nephew. "Does Mr. Jameson know?"

"I don't think so, at least not yet," he replied, not bothering to explain how M.J.'s ex had intervened in his behalf.

"What will you do now?" she inquired, deeply worried about her nephew being out of work again, just as he was settling into his relationship with Mary Jane.

But Peter was not the least bit concerned about that subject. "Funny you should ask," he eagerly replied, thrilled that he could finally give his aunt some long-overdue good news about his financial situation. He stood up, turned to face her, and put his hands gently on her shoulders. "Things have really started turning around for me, Aunt May," he told her proudly, his enthusiasm starting to bubble over. "I went to see Professor Connors in his office last Sunday. I thought he was going to flunk me, but instead, he took me on as an analyst in his consulting operation. Right after that, I got hired by a law firm as a forensics expert. And then, the day after I quit the _Bugle_, I had lunch with Ben Urich and he got me a photography gig with the _New York Times_, right on the spot."

"That's wonderful, Peter," Aunt May replied, glad that the world was finally starting to recognize the intelligence, talent, and work ethic that she and Ben had struggled for the last sixteen years to nurture. "Which one will you take?"

"All of them," Peter answered. "They're all freelance."

"Oh . . . I see . . ." Aunt May's tone suddenly dropped to lukewarm. She had been hoping that Peter would find something a little more stable, like the job her late husband held with _ConEd_ for over thirty five years. "Wouldn't you be better off with a job that can give you a steady paycheck and benefits?"

For Peter, however, such a situation would be a liability rather than an asset. With having to respond to crises that could flare up at any time, he wouldn't last a week in a regular job, as his previous attempts to find that kind of work had amply demonstrated. Of course, he could never tell Aunt May his real reason for wanting a freelancing arrangement. But with a little of the baby blue eyes charm that melted his fiancée's heart, he attempted to extol the benefits of life as an independent contractor.

"These aren't low-paying jobs, like pizza delivery," he explained patiently. "I'll be working with really important people, doing things like tracking biotech trends for investment bankers, running DNA tests in high-profile court cases, and selling human interest photos that the _Bugle _wouldn't take. Plus, I can set my own hours. Trust me, I'll be making more money this way than I ever could in a single job."

"And what about school?" asked a still-skeptical Aunt May. "I don't mean to keep sticking pins in your balloon Peter, but how can you possibly handle all that work and still keep your grades up?"

Peter had an answer for that too. "I've got a huge incentive," he responded.

Aunt May gave him a confused look.

"I'm sorry, I forgot to tell you," Peter said, getting ready to deliver what he hoped would be the _pièce de résistance_. "When I saw Dr. Connors, he told me that I should skip my last two years of college and get started with graduate study right away. As his research assistant I can get published in a scientific journal. _And_, he promised that if I do really well, he'll write me a letter of recommendation to Columbia Medical School."

By his reckoning, Aunt May should have been elated at this news. It was what she and Uncle Ben wanted for him, and what he wanted for himself. Unfortunately, she did not appear to be moved, either by his arguments or his boyish charms. She glanced over toward Mary Jane, who was quietly sipping her tea and observing the exchange. M.J. said nothing, but Peter could see from the look in her eyes that she too harbored concerns about the workload he would be taking on, in addition to his already burdensome responsibilities.

But Peter would not give up. It was vitally important that they both understand where he was coming from. "Look, Aunt May," he implored as he gently placed his hands on the old woman's shoulders. "I know I've messed up in the past, but that was only because I didn't have what I needed the most . . . a special person to share my life with. Now I do." He reached out toward Mary Jane, who smiled and promptly extended her hand. "With M.J. by my side, things will be different, I swear. In the first year alone, I can easily pull down fifty grand, probably more. I'll finally be able to start supporting you like I should've been doing all along." He looked at her earnestly. "The bottom line is, I'll be getting great experience and you'll never have to worry about money again. I just need you to believe in me. Please, Aunt May . . . Please."

Aunt May finally smiled as she reciprocated her nephew's shoulder-touching gesture. "Of course I believe in you, Peter," she said lovingly. "It's not that I doubt your abilities. I know you have it in you to succeed at anything you put your mind to. It's just that . . ."

"Just what?"

"Well, for one thing, I hope you're not doing this because you think you'll have to take care of me," she told him with that brand of loving sternness that was uniquely her.

Peter started to protest. "But don't you need . . . ?"

She promptly cut him off. "Between Social Security and your uncle Ben's pension, I'm doing just fine." The sharpness in her tone told him in no uncertain terms that there should be no more discussions about her finances. "You just worry about yourself and Mary Jane, okay?"

Peter knew it would be futile to press his argument any further. "Okay," he reluctantly conceded.

But Aunt May had not yet finished playing devil's advocate. "Peter," she said, softening her skepticism around the edges somewhat. "I know how much you want to do the right thing, but I still think that working three jobs _and_ going to school full time is a bit too much, even for you. For goodness sakes, with everything you've already got on your plate, how do you . . . how _will _you make time for your future wife?"

It was his aunt's slip of the tongue that gave Peter pause. Both he and Mary Jane clearly noticed the way Aunt May had gone out of her way to correct herself. _Does she suspect anything?_ Peter asked himself. But, as with John in the bar, he held his anxieties in check, maintaining an outward appearance of being unfazed. "It's not gonna be easy, Aunt May, I'll admit that," he reiterated. "But, it's not like M.J.'ll be sitting home waiting for me. She has a modeling contract with a huge international cosmetics company. Not only that, but _Earnest_ has been sold-out for months. It's only a matter of time before she hits it really, really big on Broadway . . ."

"Oh stop it, Peter," Mary Jane gently chided, showing mild embarrassment on the outside, but inwardly reveling in her boyfriend's praises.

Aunt May responded with a word of caution, her outlook tempered by decades of experience in having to cope with life's ups and downs. "Do you remember our good friends, Belle and Manny Rosen, who we used to play bridge with?"

Peter nodded, wondering what brought about the sudden change of subject.

"Whenever we talked about the good things that were happening in our lives, they would always tell us not to give ourselves any 'kain ein hores,'" May explained. "Do you know what that means?"

Peter had heard the expression often enough that he now knew precisely what his aunt's point was. "Sorry God," he joked, glancing heavenward. "I take back what I said about M.J."

Mary Jane lightheartedly elbowed him in the ribs as her face twisted into a mock frown.

"Hey," he quipped. "You heard Aunt May. No more kain ein hores."

_They're so perfect together_, May sighed silently as she watched the lovers engage in their playful banter, even as she struggled to keep a lid on the inner turmoil she was feeling. If there was one talent that May Reilly Parker had in abundance, it was the ability to hide her anxieties behind a curtain of joviality.

But not indefinitely.

Taking a deep breath so as not to sound too abrupt, she said, "Peter, I need you to do something for me."

"Of course, Aunt May. What is it?"

She opened her purse and handed Peter a grocery list, her spare key, and eighty dollars in cash. "You arrived so fast that I didn't even have the chance to go to the store," she explained. Moving rather quickly, she retrieved her shopping cart from the hall closet, a rickety two-wheeler that Peter used to call the "old lady cart," when he was little. "Why don't you be a dear and pick up these things for me at _Safeway_." She nodded her head in Mary Jane's direction. "And don't rush. M.J. and I need a little time for some long-overdue girl talk, alright?"

Peter looked over the list before taking the cart. It was quite long. "Okay, Aunt May. Sure." He had been trying to figure out how to tell his aunt that he and Mary Jane would be moving in together, and was not altogether unhappy about getting a reprieve. "I'll probably be gone for at least an hour," he told his fiancée.

"Just don't get lost, okay Tiger?" she said mellifluously as she got up off the couch and glided into his arms for a lengthy kiss.

"Ahem!" Aunt May glared at her nephew after nearly fifteen seconds had passed. "You'll have plenty of time for that later."

"Oh, sorry Aunt May," Peter said, as he hastily separated himself from Mary Jane and grabbed the cart.

Just as he started to roll it toward the door, May called out, "not that you actually _need_ that cart . . ."

Peter did not say a word. He merely raised his hand in acknowledgment. But Mary Jane was beginning to suspect that Aunt May knew something that Peter didn't necessarily want her to know. She watched the old woman impatiently follow her nephew with her eyes until the door closed behind him.

As soon they were alone, May sat down next to Mary Jane on the couch, in the spot that Peter had just vacated. "You know, M.J.," she began. " I cannot even begin to tell you how proud I am of Peter, and how happy I am that the two of you are finally together. But at the same time . . ." Her voice trailed off as she slowly turned away from Mary Jane and gazed out of the living room window, in the direction of Coney Island.

"What, Aunt May?"

May shook her head. "I don't know . . . It's funny, how you think you know someone you've been so close to for so many years, but then, it turns out that you don't really know them at all . . ." Her voice was quivering. "Tell me something, M.J.," she asked, still staring out the window, her anxieties no longer subtly concealed. In fact, they were no longer concealed at all. "What made you call off your wedding?"

Mary Jane felt her heart start to pound as she began to perceive some very familiar feelings emanate from Aunt May — feelings of having one's whole world suddenly turn upside down — feelings of anger and disappointment — feelings that Mary Jane Watson had experienced many times throughout the course of her association with Peter Parker. "I wasn't in love with the man I was about to marry," she answered evenly.

M.J. was acutely aware that Aunt May was probing her. If their conversation were a game of chess, May would have just put her in check. She was trying a gambit, hoping that if she told part of the truth, May would spare her from having to reveal the rest of it.

Unfortunately, the gambit failed.

"It's a little bit late to find that out on your wedding day, isn't it?" Aunt May pointed out, clearly not satisfied with M.J.'s response. She was looking more and more forlorn, even in profile. "When I heard about the terrorist attack, I called Peter to make sure he was all right," she continued as her hands started to tremble. "I hoped and prayed that he would answer the phone . . . But he didn't . . ." She was an inch or two away from losing it. "And then the two of you show up here, engaged, not even a week after your mother tells me that you're going to marry that astronaut . . ."

It was obvious now that Aunt May had been steadily sifting through the clues that Peter had been leaving behind, accidentally or otherwise, and that his lightning-fast engagement to Mary Jane was the clue that gave away the store. M.J. could only watch helplessly as her meticulously crafted game plan for preserving Peter's secret went out the window.

And yet, it did not come as a complete surprise. _If John, who didn't know Peter from Adam, could figure it all out . . ._

"Please, Mary Jane. I've got to know the truth," Aunt May begged, still unable to look Mary Jane directly in the eye. "It _was_ Peter who saved your life down at that pier and all those other times, wasn't it?" Her whole body was beginning to shake.

_Check mate_. Mary Jane felt like the rope in a tug of war between her loyalty to Peter and his aunt's desperate need to come to grips with this enormous revelation. She couldn't insult the old woman's intelligence and dignity by lying to her, especially now, when she was so distraught . . . _I'm so sorry, Peter. Forgive me . . ._ "Yes," she murmured. "It was."

"And that's when you found out that he was Spi . . .who he really is?" She could not even put the names of her nephew and the webslinger together in the same sentence.

Mary Jane nodded her head affirmatively as she reached for Aunt May's hand. But the old woman was too upset to reciprocate. She hunched forward, buried her face in her hands and started sobbing as all of the anxiety and sorrow and hurt and anger that had been building inside her for days came to a head.

"How could he do this to me?" May Parker wailed pitifully as the reasons for her nephew's trials and tribulations over the last two years became clear to her. "No wonder he couldn't hold down a job. He's always out there trying to get himself killed! How could he lie to me all these years . . .?"

Mary Jane saw how hard it was for Aunt May to reconcile herself to the truth. She gently put her arm around the sobbing woman's shoulders, trying to think of any words of comfort that she might offer. Unfortunately, her mind was not cooperating.

"Ben and I raised Peter as our own son when his parents died," Aunt May continued, fighting her way through another bout of tears. "Not once did I ever let that responsibility break me, although there were times when I thought it might. I took care of him when he was sick. I felt his pain when he came home crying because the bullies at school were picking on him. And I never let him forget what a special boy he is. Doesn't any of that count for some measure of trust?" She pulled a Kleenex from a box on the coffee table and blew her nose.

Mary Jane leaned over and gave May a gentle hug. "I know exactly what you're going through, Aunt May," she said soothingly. "Believe me, I know."

"How can you?" May wept. "You're not a mother . . ."

"That's true," M.J. readily agreed, "But I know how it feels to be hurt by somebody you love . . . and not just once either." She took May's wrinkly hand in her soft, supple ones. "The only reason I accepted John's marriage proposal was because I was pissed off at Peter for all the mind games I thought he was playing on me, all the times he stood me up, all the broken promises. I said things to him and about him that I still regret, hurtful things that I never would have said if I had known what was going on."

Aunt May finally turned toward Mary Jane. She had stopped crying, but her eyes were still red.

"But it was all because he loves me," Mary Jane went on, starting to get a little emotional herself. "And if it were left up to him, he would have let me go ahead and marry John . . . so that I would be . . . safe . . . I was the one that had to . . .to . . ." She could not continue. Choking back a sob, she too reached for a Kleenex. "Don't you see, Aunt May?" she said softly as she wiped her eyes. "Everything Peter did, he did because he loves you. And more than anything in the world, he wants to protect you . . ."

It was at that very moment that May Parker finally realized the magnitude and depth of Mary Jane's sacrifice. She had willingly walked away from guaranteed wealth and privilege to give Peter what he needed to survive: her absolute and undying love. As far as May was concerned, Mary Jane was a kindred soul, a sister who had earned the right to be initiated into the world's most exclusive sorority, right alongside her.

May abruptly got up from the couch. Expressions of comprehension followed by determination played across her face as she decided to embark upon a course of action that she had been contemplating, with the utmost reluctance, for the past couple of days. "I think I understand it all now," the old woman said cryptically. "Come with me." She gestured for Mary Jane to follow her to the bedroom.

_It's so small_, M.J. sadly observed when they arrived. The tiny room was indeed a stark contrast from the master bedroom that she and Peter would shortly be moving into. But it at least it was large enough to accommodate the king-sized bed she had once shared with her late husband.

May opened the plain-looking beige shades to let in some sunlight. Then she opened her closet. "Would you bring me that little red and black valise on the top shelf, dear?" she asked.

There were two. "Which one?" Mary Jane asked.

"The one on the left."

The small suitcase felt surprisingly heavy as Mary Jane heaved it off the shelf.

"Just put it right down here, on the bed please."

May opened the zipper. Inside the valise were a bunch of spiral notebooks. Some were red, others were green, blue, purple, and yellow. They were numbered one through twenty nine. The twenty-ninth notebook was black. Unlike the others, it had no dates on the front cover.

"These are Peter's diaries," May explained. "He left them with me at the old place when he moved out of the loft he shared with Harry. I threw them in the trash by mistake when I was packing for the move, but Henry Jackson, little boy who was helping me, pulled them back, thank goodness."

Mary Jane looked surprised. It never occurred to her that Peter would keep a journal.

"When Peter first came to us, he had a very hard time accepting that his parents wouldn't be coming back," May continued. "To help him cope, Ben encouraged him to write letters to his mom and dad, letting them know how he was getting along."

"How long was he writing those letters?" Mary Jane asked, curious.

"From when he was four until shortly after Thanksgiving, two years ago," May answered somberly. "Ben and I took turns taking dictation until Peter was old enough to write by himself . . . when he was six, I think."

As May began to pull the notebooks out of the small suitcase and lay them across the bed in chronological order, it suddenly dawned on Mary Jane what the old woman had in mind. "Aunt May," she asked slowly. "Are you suggesting that we . . . _read_ them?"

May made it clear that she had no illusions about what she was contemplating. "I know what you're thinking, M.J." she said regretfully. "And you're right. This is wrong . . . terribly wrong. It goes against everything I believe in . . . but . . ." Her voice broke again. "I don't know what else to do. He hasn't left us any choice."

Aunt May's blunt, emotional response forced Mary Jane to acknowledge that she felt the same way. Invading Peter's privacy in this fashion was, without a doubt, reprehensible. She knew how mortified she would feel if she had kept a diary and Peter had read it without her knowledge or permission. But she quickly overcame her reservations, knowing that if she and Aunt May were ever going to come to terms with Peter's dual identity, they would first have to understand the fear and guilt that fueled Spider-Man's existence. And what better place to look for the source of that fear and guilt than Peter's own words?

For Mary Jane, however, there was a much more immediate sense of urgency, now that she and Peter would be living together. She had seen for herself the awful manifestations of his somnambulistic nightmares. Finding and countering the malevolent thoughts that were driving those nightmares was of the utmost importance. Otherwise, he would surely have another episode like the one he had the night before. And the next time, he might seriously injure himself, or her, or others without even being aware of it. Even Peter would have to agree that such safety considerations outweighed whatever privacy concerns that he would have about his diaries. For that reason, M.J. was inclined to believe that he would forgive their act of tresspass.

But that did not make the act any easier to carry out. Sitting side-by-side on the edge of the bed, the two women hugged each other tightly, steeling themselves for the sin they were about to commit.

"I think we'll need to go straight to confession after this," Mary Jane said in an effort to ease the tension, once again taking May's hands in her own as a gesture of solidarity.

"Every day, for at least a month," May added with a brief smile. "And that's _after_ we tell him."

M.J. laughed softly, happy to see that Aunt May could still maintain a sense of humor despite the seriousness of their situation.

May picked up the blue notebook dated _June 1990 - March 1991. _She was just dying to show Mary Jane the entry in which six-year-old Peter, with the help of his aunt, had first expressed his feelings for the pretty little redhead who had just moved in next door: _Dear Mommy and Daddy . . . Sau my first angel today. Shes got very bootifal red hare. I think I luv her. Tell God I said thank yoo . . . Yur sun . . . Peter._ The old woman started to open the journal, but abruptly changed her mind, not wanting to intrude on her nephew's private thoughts any more than she had to . . . _If Peter ever decides he wants her to see it, he'll show it to her himself . . ._ Instead, she reached for number twenty nine. "I think we need to look in this one" she told M.J.

Laying the undated black notebook across their laps, they slowly, tentatively, began their journey into the emotional labyrinth that was the mind of their loved one.


	22. Other Plans

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**The letters to Peter's parents and the flashbacks are drawn, almost verbatim, but not quite, from: Peter David, _Spider-Man, The Official Novelization of the Film_ (New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2002), pp. 54-55, 93-94, 101-02, 115-16, 132, 146-49, 164, 171, 306-08, 310.**

**Flash Thompson's acknowledgment of Peter's victory comes from the episode in the '67 series entitled, _The Origin of Spider-Man_, in which a biker says, "That cat's a tiger," after watching Peter Parker knock down a streetlight with his bare hands. Spider-Man 's vow "never to shirk his duty again" also comes from that episode. Aunt May's line about Peter's heart being in the right place comes from the very next episode in that series, the one entitled, _King-Pinned_.**

**Peter's journal entry in which he postulates about his DNA fusing with that of the spider comes from _The Fly_ © 1986 by 20th Century Fox, all rights reserved.**

**_Singing in the Rain, _Music by Nacio Herb Brown, Lyrics by Arthur Freed, copyright © 1952, all rights reserved.**

**"All glory is fleeting." - General George S. Patton, Jr.**

**The liquor store scene draws its inspiration from Chapter 20 of _Brother, Love and Adversity, _by Jenn 1, in which a young mother who had just been rescued by Spider-Man was more afraid of him than of her captors. Thanks, Jenn.**

**Fallon was the fight fixer who told Matt Murdock's father, Jack "The Devil" Murdock, to take a fall. _See_ Greg Cox, _Daredevil_ (New York: Penguin-Putnam, Inc. 2003)pp. 50-51.**

**The prophetic nightmare in Peter's journal was inspired by a scene in the film _Papillon_, © 2005 by Warner Bros. Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved, in which Henrí "Papillon" Charriére, played by Steve McQueen, hallucinates while in solitary confinement.**

"**Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans." - John Lennon**

"**He has forgotten both of us. You lost him when he went to seek his God. I lost him when he found his God." Moses's wife, Sephora, to Queen Nefretiri in _The Ten Commandments_, © 1956 by Paramount Pictures Corporation, all rights reserved.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XXII**

**OTHER PLANS**

"I don't understand," a shocked May Parker murmured as she read about her nephew's life-changing encounter with a spider. "How could a thing like this have happened?"

Mary Jane didn't understand how it happened either. Science was never her forté, and Midtown High's four-year science requirement was not a point in her favor. But she had surmised enough to formulate a hypothesis as good as any theory a competent biologist might offer. "Columbia was doing some sort of genetic experiments with spiders, cross-breeding them in order to bring out their best traits," she explained tentatively. "One of them got out of its case. It must have somehow passed its DNA on to Peter when it bit him."

May shifted uneasily as she rolled her eyes. "It almost sounds like voodoo."

Mary Jane had to admit that the old woman was right on that score. She closed her eyes for an instant, remembering how Peter had timidly approached her, Konica in hand . . .

"_Can I take your picture? I need one with a student in it."_

"_Don't make me look ugly," she playfully warned him._

"_Impossible," he scoffed as he took aim._

How ironically appropriate that she, Mary Jane Watson, would be the one to have the last conversation with the old, "normal" Peter Parker.

"Ben and I had no idea that anything was wrong with him," Aunt May recalled, snapping M.J. out of her daydream. "He came home from that field trip and went straight to his room, telling us that he didn't feel well. We didn't hear a peep out of him all night. The next morning, he seemed fine. Better than fine, actually."

Then came the fight. A chill ran down Aunt May's spine as she read Peter's account of how he had turned Flash Thompson's face into a mass of black and blue jelly, putting an end to years of unrelenting bullying with one single right to the jaw . . .

_I didn't just beat Flash. I clobbered him, and it was no effort at all._

From all the times Peter had come home from school in tears, May figured that it was long overdue. Still, she had a hard time coming to terms with the tremendous strength her nephew now possessed.

"You know, M.J., Peter could've crippled that boy. Or worse."

"I know," Mary Jane acknowledged, remembering how three of Flash's friends and a couple of teachers had practically carried him to the nurse's office. Fortunately, it had not been as bad as it looked. Although Flash had bled quite a bit and had lost a few teeth, there was no permanent disfigurement. But when he came by that night to show off his new car , the whole left side of his face was blown up, as if he had the mumps. "That Parker's a tiger," she remembered Flash mumbling, a tone of respect in his thickened voice.

M.J and Aunt May continued through the journal, intrigued as they read how Peter had experimented with his new powers for the rest of that day . . .

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

_This is unbelievable! Not only did I get really strong, but I can fly too. Not like Superman or anything like that. But hey, leaping across rooftops and swinging on a vine between buildings is pretty darn close. Please pass along my thanks to God when you get the chance. He really came through for me, big time. _

_I sure wish Mary Jane could see me now. Wait a minute. I take that back. She'd probably freak. I know I would. _

_Wow, _Mary Jane sighed, _he was thinking about me even then._ She felt both awed and humbled at being the object of the embryo god's affections. He was probably right, — she might very well have freaked if she had seen him jump fifty feet through the air. But then again, she had seen him do some pretty amazing things that day, like catching her when she slipped in the cafeteria, rescuing her food at the same time. And of course, his agility in dodging Flash's fists was nothing short of incredible.

But in those first hours of his new life, Peter was a far cry from the human dynamo that he would soon become. He had been on an emotional roller-coaster, his moods zigzagging between elation with his newfound abilities and fear at the metamorphosis his body was undergoing . . .

_What if that spider's DNA fused with mine? I could wind up turning into a six-foot arachnid, sprouting extra legs, watching my skin turn brown and peel away, my face decay, and my body parts fall off, like I had leprosy or something._

That notion seemed so outlandish that Mary Jane had to giggle. But at the time, Peter had barely understood what was happening to him. The possibility of such a dreadful transformation must have seemed frighteningly real. Fortunately though, his paranoia quickly passed as he tried out his newly-formed web-shooters. His first attempts to control them were so clumsy they were downright hilarious . . .

_I set up two empty glass bottles on a bookcase and tried to hit them with a web strand. Didn't even come close. . . . I managed to cover nearly every object in my room with webbing except for the freakin' bottles._

"That must have been a sight to behold," laughed Mary Jane as she imagined Peter splattering Albert Einstein's face with milky goo. But he had apparently gotten the hang of it in no time, developing pinpoint accuracy in a matter of hours.

As Aunt May was about to turn to the next entry, M.J. suddenly remembered a paragraph near the beginning of the passage they were looking at. She had almost missed it. "Can we go back for a minute?"

**XXXXXXXXXX**

" _. . . I'm singing in the rain . . . just singing in the rain . . ."_

Peter hummed to the muzak piping through the _Safeway_ as he rolled Aunt May's shopping cart out the door. It was so loaded down with groceries that he had to hold onto three of the bags with one hand to keep them from falling off.

He could not remember the last time he felt so good about his life. For the second time, his aunt had acknowledged his bona fides as a true blue, all-American hero. The girl he had been madly in love with since time began would soon be his wife. And he had been cited for bravery by no less that the President of the United States.

" . . ._ what a glorious feeling . . . I'm ha-ha-happy again . . ."_

But, like fireworks, glory fades very quickly.

He had barely gone a few steps when the world around him once again slowed to a snail's pace. It did not take long for the cause to materialize. Two thieves, wearing ski masks and black jackets, had burst out of a liquor store across the street, gym bags in one hand, pistols in the other.

"Awww crap," he groaned as he let go of the cart and made for the nearest alley. He heard a _splat_ as the grocery bags he was holding fell from their precarious perch and crashed onto the sidewalk. _Damn _. . . _I should've packed those eggs in the middle._

Once again in full regalia, Peter wasted no time closing in on his quarry. He watched in astonishment as the robbers stopped running and pocketed their guns, making no effort to hide in an alley or otherwise conceal themselves. Instead they swaggered arrogantly down the street, overconfident, oblivious to who was tracking them from overhead. _What schmucks_, Peter laughed silently,_ staging a robbery in the middle of the day, in front of numerous witnesses_. He relished the prospect of making short work of them.

Neither of the robbers heard the double-_thwipp_ sound made by the rapid firing of weblines. In mere seconds, they found themselves separated from their spoils and hanging from a lamp post, held in place by extremely thin, but powerful gossamer strands.

"I'll take those, gentlemen," Spider-Man said as he scooped up the gym bags, leaped across the street, and headed back toward the liquor store. The webbing would hold them in place for a few hours, he guessed, plenty of time for someone to call the cops. In the meantime, he would return the stolen cash and get back to Aunt May's without losing much time, except that he would have to replace the groceries that were damaged.

He went into the store and extended the bags to the proprietor, expecting an expression of gratitude.

The reaction he got was quite different . . . and totally unexpected.

"Back off, asshole," the swarthy, overweight, liquor store owner shouted. "I ain't got nothin left for yooz to take!"

"Hey," an utterly stunned Spider-Man started to say, "I'm just trying to . . ."

"I said GET BACK!" the proprietor screamed in a very thick New York accent. "Or, God help me, I'll blow yaw fuckin head right off!" Backing up the man's threat was a Smith and Wesson Model 60 revolver pointed right at the webslinger's face.

Spider-Man could not believe that this paranoid booze peddler thought he was going to get robbed again. Shock gave way to anger, both at the man for holding a gun on him, and at the steady torrent of negative publicity that was most likely generating the man's reaction.

"Just put da money on da countah!" the proprietor barked, "and don't try nuttin funny eedah."

"Either," an exasperated Spider-Man corrected.

"What . . .?"

"Hey Jack!" someone yelled as the front door burst open. It was one of the proprietor's long-time customers as well as a frequent drinking buddy, a paunchy, middle-aged man with thinning hair. "Did you see what . . ." The paunch clammed up as soon he saw the unfolding confrontation, but the distraction gave Spider-Man the fraction of a second he needed. Before the command to pull the trigger could leave the proprietor's brain, he found his hand pinned to the counter top, revolver and all. He never even heard the _thwipp_.

"It's not polite to point a gun at anyone," Spider-Man lectured the now-immobile proprietor as if he were a charm school master teaching etiquette to children. Although he tried not to be intimidating, he took a certain grim pleasure watching the man stew in his own fear. "In case you don't read the newspaper, I'm one of the good guys."

Then he saw the open _Daily Bugle_ on a chair behind the counter. "Oh, you _do_ read the newspaper. Never mind."

He dropped the gym bags on the counter. "When I cut you loose, you're going to call 9-1-1 and tell the police to send a squad car to pick up the package that's waiting for them, courtesy of your Friendly-Neighborhood Spider-Man. Do you think you can remember that?"

The proprietor was too shocked to answer. His confusion stemmed from the sharp contradiction between his actual experience with the webslinger and his expectation.

"He's right, Jack," the paunch said from behind Spider-Man's back. "I saw the whole thing. They didn't even get two blocks away before Spider-Man here let 'em have it."

"I should make you write 'I'm sorry that I pulled a gun on Spider-Man' on the blackboard one hundred times," Peter quipped with a bit of edgy sarcasm as he opened up the bags to show the proprietor that he really intended to return the money. "But since I don't see a blackboard, I'll settle for an apology."

The proprietor, at heart a decent and law-abiding fellow, recognized the face-saving opportunity that he was being offered. "I . . .I'm sorry," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough to be heard.

"Apology accepted." Spider-Man promptly fulfilled his end of the bargain. But as he ripped apart the webbing, he took the revolver from the man's hand, opened up the chamber, and let the bullets drop onto the floor behind the counter. "Don't believe everything you read," he warned as he handed the now empty gun back to its owner. "Oh, and don't touch the bags. You'll make the cops' job a lot harder if they find your fingerprints."

As he made his way out the door, the paunch followed him.

"Thanks for not bein too hard on Jack," the man said as he approached Spider-Man a little nervously. "He don't mean no harm. He just reads all that shit about you in the _Daily Bugle_."

"No problem," Spider-Man replied as he was getting ready to take off. But something in the customer's gravelly voice made him hesitate for a moment.

"You saved my daughter's butt, you know," the customer continued. "I just wish you could save her from that loser she's gettin' herself involved with."

"Can't help you there, pal," Spider-Man said absentmindedly, not really paying much attention. The man was sloppily dressed, his shirttails sticking out of his dirty slacks. To Peter, he looked the part of an alcoholic, although he didn't appear to be inebriated now. He was probably some wino whose teenager he had rescued from a tenement fire.

The customer watched Spider-Man get ready to take off. "Um, before you go, can I shake your hand?"

_Sure, why not,_ Spider-Man thought, his spider-sense not registering anything amiss. _At least the guy's a fan._ As he extended his arm, he got his first good look at the paunch's face.

He froze, unable to move a muscle.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

_I'm starting to realize how much she's hurting . . . M.J. deserves to be happy. She deserves to have a guy who will treat her right, give her nice things, and show her a good time. She's had such a crummy home life . . . I think the only reason she still hangs with Flash is to keep her dad off her back. _

_Right on the money_, an amazed Mary Jane thought. She recalled having this same conversation with Harry Osborn on the day she visited the loft, the day she and Harry began dating. She had gone there to see Peter, but had gotten swept up by Harry's tender expressions of sympathy, expressions that she finally realized were not his. Like Cyrano De Bergerac, Peter had all but written Harry's pick-up lines for him. The proof was right there, in front of her.

Looking back, Mary Jane felt ashamed at how malleable she had been in those days. Her old man had really done a first-rate job on her over the years, grinding her sense of self-worth into the dust, leaving her vulnerable to the whims of people and events around her. Reading this passage had kindled her anger, not only at her father, but also at her own docility in the face of his abuse. "What I would've given to see Peter knock that drunken slob into the middle of next week," she grumbled.

But as soon as those words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.

"Mary Jane Watson!" Aunt May snapped. M.J. was taken aback by the sharpness in the old woman's tone, so much so that the journal fell out of her lap and onto the floor. "You should never show such disrespect to your father!"

M.J. paused to collect herself. She did not want to lose the affections of the woman whom she regarded as her second mother. "I'm sorry Aunt May. I know I shouldn't say things like that, but he treated my mom and me like garbage the whole time I was growing up." She was close to tears. "The stress he put us under with his drinking and his constant put-downs was the reason mom got sick. I'm sure of it."

May was already thinking that she had reacted a bit too harshly. She gently took M.J.'s hands. "Don't you think I know that, dear? You mother and I talked quite a lot over the years. Believe me, I know what kind of a person your father is. But remember, he's still with us, and that's something you should never take for granted."

Mary Jane quickly realized where Aunt May was coming from as she met the old woman's piercing gaze. The loss of a spouse put things into perspective in ways that nothing else ever could. May lightly caressed Mary Jane's cheek. "The thing that separates us human beings from animals is that we can change if we really want to."

"He'll never change, Aunt May," Mary Jane replied bitterly. "He's always been pissed off at the world."

May furrowed her brow. "Any idea why?"

Mary Jane had to think for a minute as she combed the recesses of her memory. "He used to be a boxer. From what Mom told me, he was a good amateur, but his pro career went nowhere. I think he once said something about taking a dive for some guy named Fallon, but I can't remember. He never really talked about it." Something else had come to mind as well, something that Aunt May, bless her wonderful heart, needed to be educated about . . .

"_Anyone can get in a lucky punch," Phil Watson sneered. "Flash was probably taking it easy on him."_

"_No way, Dad. Peter just . . . just took him down. Flash did everything he could and never laid a hand on him."_

"_Sound to me like Flash needs work on his technique. Maybe I'll give him a few pointers when he stops by."_

_Mary Jane was shocked and angry. "What do you mean, you'll give him a few pointers?" she shouted. "You want to give Flash some tips on how to pound Peter into the ground?" She stomped toward the stairs. "I don't want to go out with Flash tonight."_

_That got her father riled up. "You'd better get something through that ditzy head of yours right now, girl. Flash Thompson is the luckiest break you ever fell into. I've seen that boy play football. He's going to be All-American. He's going to make a ton of money. You could do a lot worse than being married to someone like him."_

"_Damned right_," _Mary Jane had snapped back, finding within herself the courage to stand up to her abusive father for the first time. "I could be married to someone like you!"_

"He came this close to beating me." M.J. held her thumb and forefinger less than half and inch apart. "And he would have if my mom didn't stop him."

"I see," Aunt May responded in a low voice. "And then what happened?"

A tear escaped from one of her eyes. "He wouldn't let up on me . . ."

"_This girl is such an idiot!" Phil Watson shouted to his wife. "She's got a future tied up in a perfect bow, and instead she worries about a loser like Peter Parker!"_

"_He's not a loser!" Mary Jane cried out defiantly._

"_And you would know!" her father barked back, trembling with rage. "You go out with Flash or don't bother coming back . . ."_

May gave Mary Jane a much-needed, heartfelt hug. "I know how hard he made your lives, M.J. But in time, you'll feel differently. For better or worse, that man is going to be your children's only living grandfather." Her not-so-subtle message to M.J. was that she should leave open the possibility of one day forgiving her father.

"It's going to take a long time for me to get there," Mary Jane sighed, struggling to reconcile May's words of wisdom with the years of suffering that she and her mother had endured. She could not dismiss the old woman's suggestion entirely. When Phil showed up at her ill-fated wedding, he at least admitted that he was a lousy father. And he had implicitly encouraged her to bolt when it became clear to him that she was not in love with John. Perhaps it was the beginning, or at least the beginning of a beginning.

But her expression remained firm. "It'll have to come from him."

"I think you might be surprised." Aunt May pointed out as she picked the diary up off the floor and opened it to the last paragraph of the entry they had been reading . . .

_Oh, and by the way, I hate to bother you about stuff like this, but I just had this really weird dream . . . I'm on trial in the middle of the desert. My lawyer bailed on me, so I'm left facing the judge and the jury all by myself. The jurors have no eyes. I don't even know what I'm being charged with. I keep shouting, "I'm innocent, I'm innocent." But no one believes me and I get convicted. Think you can drop God a line and ask him what he's trying to tell me?_

Mary Jane wondered why the old woman's hand was starting to shake.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"For the life of me, I'll never understand that girl," Phil Watson spouted off to Spider-Man as if talking to a sympathetic bartender. "She dumps three guys who could've given her the world. And for what? A scrawny little twerp who ain't going nowhere, who's got loser with a capital L written all over him."

Peter tried to separate himself from his future father-in-law without making it appear obvious. He had good reason. His last encounter with Mr. Watson had been seared into his memory, like his brain had been branded with a hot iron . . . _So I go over and start heading up their front walk, and before can even knock, the door opens and there's M.J.'s father. And he just looks at me with pure contempt. I try to ask if Mary Jane can hang out, but he stares at me and says, "She's got a boyfriend. And even if she didn't, I wouldn't let her see some faggot like you." And then he slams the door in my face. In . . . my . . . face . . . _

But it was not in Peter's nature to nurse a grudge. Despite the insults he had taken from Phil Watson, both past and present, he felt neither anger nor annoyance toward the man. Instead, he felt amused at the irony of hearing him praise Spider-Man even as he heaped scorn upon the webslinger's alter-ego. He wondered whether he should just yank off his mask and enjoy watching the guy have a coronary.

Faking a cough to hide his mirth, Peter placed a clenched fist over his mouth.

"You got a cold or something?" Phil Watson asked sympathetically.

"Uh, yeah," Peter replied, somewhat surprised by Watson's expression of concern. "It's been a rough week."

"You must have a lot of them." He clapped a hand onto Spider-Man's shoulder. "Want some advice?"

Peter recoiled slightly at Watson's touch. _Not really . . ._ The jerk had a smug air of self-importance that really grated on his nerves.

"Quit this hero stuff and make some real money," the off-duty alcoholic went on, oblivious to Peter's reaction. "The Jets could sure use a decent quarterback. You could easily whip them losers into Super Bowl champs. I guarantee that even Mr. Jameson would love ya."

"Already been there," Peter replied coolly, already knowing how futile it would be to explain to this blithering idiot why Spider-Man could never exploit his talents for monetary gain. "But I'll take your suggestion under advisement."

Mistaking Spider-Man's attentiveness for a license to vent, Phil Watson started in on Mary Jane again. "You know why my dumb-ass daughter walks away from winners?" he sneered. "Because she can't measure up, that's why. And she knows it, too. She ain't no actress, that's for sure. She probably got that part by letting the director bang her. That's the only talent she's got."

Peter seethed beneath his mask, all traces of amusement vanishing in an instant. A low growl escaped his throat. He needed every ounce of willpower he had to hold back the urge to ram his fist through Phil Watson's face . . . _How dare you talk about Mary Jane like she was a cheap whore!_ he raged silently._ Your daughter happens to be the most wonderful, beautiful, fabulous, amazing, exciting woman in the whole world. She's got more talent in her pinky than you'll ever have in your entire life _. . . "I have to go," he said with a forced neutrality. "But thanks . . . for sticking up for me."

"You betcha," Phil Watson fawned as he watched Spider-Man take off toward a high rise across the street, never knowing how close he had come to having his head handed to him.

_Man, this dual-identity stuff drives me nuts sometimes, _Peter sighed as he made his way across the rooftops, taking a few deep breaths and letting go of his temper. Phil Watson was one fan he did not want. Unfortunately that clown was going to be an unavoidable part of his life from now on. For Mary Jane's sake, he resolved to make the best of a bad situation. He thanked God that M.J. had the inner strength to survive living under that neanderthal's roof for as long as she had.

After traveling for ten blocks or so, Peter suddenly reversed course and meandered back to the _Safeway_. He hated to waste time with precautionary detours, but it was the only to keep witnesses from connecting dots he did not want connected. He quickly returned to the alley, changed, and hurried back to the spot near the _Safeway_ entrance where he had left Aunt May's groceries.

His heart sank as he found himself confronting a new crisis.

The cart and everything in it was gone

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"_ATTENTION AMATEUR WRESTLERS. THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS! FOR JUST THREE MINUTES IN THE RING! COLORFUL CHARACTERS A MUST. They want colorful characters? I'll give them one they'll never forget."_

"It was him!" Aunt May gasped.

"Who?" Mary Jane looked questioningly at her.

"We were watching a wrestling match. The challenger, he . . . _Oh Lord, no, no . . ._ called himself . . . Spider-Man." May was trembling violently now, her complexion turning pale.

Mary Jane instantly slammed the diary shut. "It's alright Aunt May," she said soothingly as she put a hand on the old woman's back to steady her.

Aunt May calmed down almost immediately. Her nephew's girlfriend was a remarkably comforting presence. "I'm fine, Mary Jane." She tried to wet her lips, but could not. "But I'm afraid I'll need to trouble you for a drink."

"You sure can, Aunt May. I'll get it right away." She hurried out to the kitchen and returned with a paper cup filled with cold water.

"Thank you, dear," May sipped it gratefully. "This has been very difficult for me, as I'm sure you know."

"We don't have to see anymore." M.J. did not want the old woman traumatized any further. She started to put the journal back in the valise.

"No." Aunt May grabbed her arm. "I think we need to go on."

"Are you sure?"

May sighed. "You need to know how much you're part of all this."

"I . . . I don't understand," an astonished M.J. replied, shifting so that she faced the old woman directly.

May endeavored to explain. "A few weeks ago, Peter told me what happened on the night my husband . . . left us. He said he needed to go to the New York Public Library to study. Which was odd, considering he always studied at home. He was going to take the subway into town, but I prodded Ben into driving him. We though that a father-son chat might shed some light on what was troubling him. Ben dropped him off at the library, but he never went inside."

"Where did he go?"

May suddenly felt her mouth go dry again. She took another sip of water. "He . . . he entered a . . . wrestling contest. He wanted to make some money so that he could buy a car. He thought it would get the attention of a certain young lady he had a crush on."

Mary Jane's eyes began to moisten as the lengths that Peter was willing to go to capture her affections became apparent. "We talked outside for a little while that night," she informed May, smiling at the memory of their uplifting conversation. "I told him I wanted to be an actress. He said I should go for it, the only one of my so-called 'friends' who ever did. Then Flash showed up in his new car, and I . . ." Her voice trailed off. "I would rather have stayed with Peter, but I didn't want to deal with my father . . ." She needed a Kleenex, which May quickly furnished. "Thanks, Aunt May," she replied gratefully, "did he win?"

"Yes, he did. We saw the whole thing on T.V. He looked so small next to the other man in that cage. But he used all sorts of tricks, and wound up laying that man on his ass." Mary Jane was sure that he heard a trace of pride in the old woman's voice at her nephew's exploits. May even managed a brief smile. "I remember thinking what an idiot that young man was, wasting his talents, acting like a gorilla . . . or should I say, a spider."

Mary Jane found it reassuring that Aunt May's sense of humor was still intact. "I take it that Peter got his money?"

"No. The man who ran the fights refused to pay him." Aunt May was starting to tremble again.

Mary Jane immediately took the old woman's hand, knowing instinctively that they were getting close to the heart of the story. "Aunt May," she asked gingerly, "Something happened to Peter after that, didn't it?"

May clenched her fist and squeezed her eyes shut until the wave of emotion had passed. "There . . . was . . . a . . . robbery . . ."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Crawling along walls and jumping between buildings, Peter moved as quickly as he could, doing aerial surveillance of everything within a fifteen-block radius of the _Safeway_. Eighty dollars worth of groceries had gone down the tubes while he was out there trying to make the world safe for decent people. Yet, even he had to admit that there was a certain poetic appropriateness in Spider-Man himself being the victim of a theft.

Peter knew that he had already been gone for more than an hour, and that Aunt May and Mary Jane would start to wonder where he was. He did not have a lot of time. M.J. had to get back into the city in time to get ready for her 8:00 curtain.

_How far could they have gotten?_ he wondered, despairing at why there was still no sign of the cart after nearly a half-hour. He was about to give up when he spotted a half-empty _Safeway_ bag lying on the sidewalk in front of a small triangular park just off Queens Boulevard. Leaping across the wide street, he landed right beside the bag, which was steeped in a puddle of ruined eggs.

It was his, alright. And as soon as he caught up with whoever had taken Aunt May's groceries, he would show them what happens to those who steal from a helpless old lady.

He did not have to look much further. Twin egg streaks on the sidewalk, no doubt made by the cart's wheels, pointed toward the park. Sure enough, a group of about eight or nine men were gathered amidst the trees. One of them was pulling the bags out of the cart, opening them, and distributing the food to the others.

But as Spider-Man moved in for the assault, he suddenly lost his appetite for combat. He had encountered homeless people before, usually on the way to school. It was impossible not to in a large city like New York. True to his nature, he often gave them dollar bills, even when he did not have much money himself. But these people looked like concentration camp survivors. To a man, they were dressed in rags, and did not look like they had eaten or bathed in weeks. Their faces were sunken and hollow, their skin hanging off their bones in folds. Rusted shopping carts and old, torn blankets were scattered on the ground all around them.

Spider-Man slowly withdrew, trying to remain inconspicuous. He decided that he would change and return for the cart, so as not alarm then unnecessarily. He was just about clear of the grove when he heard a tree branch snap beneath his foot.

Startled, the homeless men turned in his direction, expressions of sheer fright twisting their faces.

"This ain't what it looks like," the man who was doling out the groceries pleaded. "We ain't had a thing to eat in days. Please man, don't do nuthin to us."

"It's alright." Spider-Man opened his palms in an I-come-in-peace gesture and slowly stepped forward. "I'm not going to hurt you guys. But I need the cart. It belongs to someone."

"Sure man, take it."

"Have the cold stuff first," Spider-Man cautioned as he retrieved the old lady cart. "It'll spoil very quickly if you don't. And make sure you cook the chicken thoroughly. Otherwise, you could get salmonella poisoning."

"Hey thanks, man." the apparent leader and spokesman for the group replied, extremely grateful that the webslinger had treated them with such kindness.

"There are shelters, you know," Spider-Man gently pointed out.

"Not for us," the leader replied grimly. "The city cut the budget for services. We was all turned away."

"I'm sorry," was all Spider-Man could say as he folded the cart and tucked it under his arm. And he was. He truly was.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

_It was the same guy! It was the thief from the arena!_ _I let that creep get away when I had the chance to stop him. He'd run past me with a bundle of cash that he'd taken off some guy who figured deserved it . . . because he stiffed me . . . It was my fault . . . all my fault . . . Oh, God . . . Uncle Ben . . . I'm so sorry . . ._

Mary Jane sat silently on the edge of the bed, staring numbly at the journal, struggling to make sense of the history that she realized she was now a part of. She had finally discovered Peter's deepest, darkest secret, only to learn that she herself had been at its epicenter. She forced herself to read the next entry, written on the day of Ben Parker's funeral . . .

_If anyone should have died, it was me. Aunt May and Uncle Ben gave me a loving home, fed me, clothed me, and raised me like I was their own son. And this is how I repaid them? I'm the one who had the opportunity to do something great with this power. But instead, I went on an ego trip and tried to hustle up some fast cash, and what happens? I'm left with the only father I've ever known lying in the cemetery. I might as well have pulled the trigger myself._

She felt Aunt May's aged, but surprisingly soft hands once again touch her tear-stained cheeks. "Are you alright, M.J?"

Mary Jane suddenly turned her face away from May, deeming herself no longer worthy of being in the old woman's presence. "I feel so horrible," she whispered, her voice breaking as she reached for another Kleenex. "None of this would've happened if I had just gone with my feelings and let Peter know that I liked him. He would never have gone to that wrestling match and your husband would still be alive."

But May would have none of that. The last thing she wanted was for Mary Jane to fall into the same trap that had ensnared her. "Dear, listen to me," she urged as she lovingly enfolded her soon-to-be niece in a tender, motherly embrace. "I was the one who told Ben to drive Peter into the city that night. Peter'd been so withdrawn. All we wanted to do was to find out what was going on with him. The next thing I knew, Ben was gone, just like that." She snapped her fingers. "For two years, I'd been playing 'what if' games. What if I had kept my mouth shut? What if I had talked to Peter about his fight with your former boyfriend? But it doesn't do any good. It won't change anything." She gave Mary Jane a gentle kiss on the forehead. "I certainly don't blame you for what happened. So please, M.J., don't go down that path."

Mary Jane reciprocated Aunt May's warm, nurturing hug. In so many ways, she was as close to this woman as to her own mother, if not more so.

"Someone once said that life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans," May continued. "As I look back, I'm starting to think that maybe, just maybe, life had other plans for Peter." She released M.J. and riffled through the journal until she came to an entry dated shortly after Peter had moved into the loft with Harry. "And I think Peter started to realize that, too. Here, have a look at this . . ."

_Dear Mom, Dad, and Uncle Ben,_

_As you can probably see, I'm sitting, on top of a gargoyle on the roof of the Chrysler Building. Well, actually it's more of a bird-head than a gargoyle, but you get the idea. It can get pretty chilly up here once the summer's over._

_Do you like the costume? I hope you do, because it took me a long time to get it right._

_Uncle Ben, if you're getting this, I promise you that as long as I live, Spider-Man will never shirk his duty again. I may get myself killed, but I have to at least try. That's really the lesson of all this, isn't it? To try?_

_If this works, I'm going to be making it a better world for a lot of people. If not . . . well . . . then I guess we'll have a lot of time to talk about it._

_I'll see you soon (oops . . . not to soon, I hope. Nothing personal). _

_Love, Peter_

Mary Jane looked up in wonder as yet another facet of the mystery that was Peter Parker unfolded before her. She immediately thought of Peter's _Flying Dutchman _poem . . . _For the sin of failing to stop a crime when he had the chance, the gods condemned him to eternal twilight . . ._ "When I first found out the truth about Peter, I was sure that Spider-Man was nothing but one big guilt trip. But now I'm really starting to think that there might be something more."

The old woman raised her eyebrows, pleased that Mary Jane could exhibit such an understanding beyond her years. "Sometimes I wonder what would Peter have done with his gifts if Ben had not been taken. Would he still be the loving, caring, humble person he'd always been, or would he have gotten arrogant and selfish, making millions of dollars and living a glamorous life, but turning his back on those who needed his help?" She looked deep into Mary Jane's eyes, — two kindred souls connecting. "Maybe what happened to Ben was not an accident. Maybe it was meant to be, so that Peter could find his destiny . . . find it and fulfill it." Then she sighed. "I don't know whether that's true or not, but I'll sure sleep better believing it."

"So will I," Mary Jane agreed, touched by Aunt May's homespun wisdom. She picked up the journal and started skimming it. Noting the old woman's expression of curiosity, she added, somewhat wistfully, "I was hoping Peter might have written something about a. . . a rainy night in an alley." She kept turning the pages until she arrived at the very last entry . . .

_Dear Mom and Dad,_

_I saw M.J at Mr. Osborn's funeral today. She told me she loved me. Boy, how I wish I could tell her how much I love her. But she can never know. She can never be a part of my life. I could never be there for her, no matter how much I want to or how hard I try to. And if anything ever happened to her because of me, I wouldn't be able to go on. I wonder if she knows, all the same. How could she not know? A kiss like that reveals everything. If not, I hope that she'll understand and get on with her life. A beautiful woman like M.J. won't wait forever, nor should she. Please ask God to find somebody for her who'll give her the life she deserves. _

Mary Jane was overjoyed at the undeniable confirmation that Peter was always in love with her. But at the same time, she felt like crying for the years she had wasted by letting Peter walk away from her in the cemetery after their magnificent kiss had triggered her suspicions.

Her conflicting expressions were not lost on Aunt May. She stood up and turned toward the window, staring off into the afternoon sky. "It won't be easy, M.J. You know that, don't you? Peter will always have responsibilities, and those responsibilities will always take come before anything else in his life, even you."

May's gentle admonition only strengthened Mary Jane's resolve. She stood up next to her soon-to-be aunt, following her gaze. "I know that Aunt May. I knew that when I left John. But I have a responsibility too. And I take that responsibility every bit as seriously as Peter takes his." She took the old woman's wrinkled, spotted hands in her firm, supple ones. "The things that make life worth living never come easy. But somehow, we'll make it work."

May extended her thin arms, weathered with age, around Mary Jane's slim shoulders. " I know you will, dear. You're such a brave young lady," she whispered tenderly. "I'm so proud to call you my niece."

Mary Jane felt her gratitude welling up behind her eyes. "Thanks Aunt May. That means so much, coming from you.

Just as the two women had embraced each other once again, they heard the sound of a key being inserted into a lock.

"You go on, M.J. I'll put these things away." As Mary Jane left the room, May discretely folded the corner of one particular page in the black notebook.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"I have no problems," Peter mumbled as the elevator opened on the seventh floor. His second trip to the _Safeway_ did not take nearly as long as the first, since he remembered where everything was and, thankfully, still had Aunt May's list. But he could not blot those homeless men out of his mind. He found it inconceivable that the richest country on the face of the Earth could allow people to slip through the cracks like that. _Hmmm. Maybe I should start robbing from the rich to give to the poor? What do you think, Uncle Ben . . ._ ? With a wry smile, he nixed that thought as soon as his uncle's disapproving image streaked across his mind's eye.

"I'm back!" Peter called out as he opened the door. No sooner had he set foot inside the apartment when Mary Jane was in his arms, a single, soft sob escaping her lips as she buried her face in his shoulder.

"Um, I haven't been gone that long, have I?" he asked, a little bewildered at the intensity of Mary Jane's reaction.

"I'm nuts about you, Peter Parker." she said softly, her voice breaking slightly as she wrapped her arms tightly around him.

"Ooooookay." Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Aunt May emerging from the bedroom.

"Mary Jane, do you think I might be able to borrow Peter for a few minutes?"

"Of course, Aunt May. I'll put the groceries away and get lunch ready."

"Thank you, dear." The old woman gestured for her nephew to follow her into the bedroom. As soon as May closed the door behind them, the mask that she had been wearing for Mary Jane's benefit dropped away. "Peter, I think you and I have some issues we need to talk about."

Peter felt a tiny, barely perceptible buzz in the back of his head. Then he saw the a pile of familiar notebooks on the bed and realized what was coming. "Aunt May," he said hastily. "I can explain . . ."

She cut him off. "No. You don't have to say anything. You already did." Her tone left no doubt that he was in the woodshed.

"The letters . . . ?"

Aunt May nodded, once again squeezing her eyes shut to hold back tears. "I just want to know why you felt that you couldn't confide in me, why you couldn't . . ." Her voice broke . . . "trust me."

Peter moved quickly to snuff out the brush fire before it spread. "Because I love you and I didn't want anything or anyone to hurt you."

But May was unpersuaded. "Peter, what did you think would happen if I found out? Did you think I couldn't handle it? Did you think I would just keel over and die, like some helpless old dodderer?"

Peter did not back down either. He had the facts on his side. "The Green Goblin found out who I was. That's why he attacked you. Every single day, my list of enemies gets longer and longer. And now, I've probably got the world's most dangerous terrorists after me. I just couldn't take the chance."

"I understand that. But there's a little more, I think. It took you two years to tell me the truth about Ben." She picked the black notebook up off the bed and opened it to the page with the fold in its corner. "These are your own words . . .'I can never, ever tell Aunt May about it, because she would hate me forever.'" Before Peter could answer, she closed the journal and placed it back in the valise. "Is _that _what you thought? Do you really believe that I could _ever_ feel that way about you?" she challenged her nephew.

May's initial reaction to his confession was still fresh in his mind. "I thought you did a few weeks ago."

"Oh, come now," May admonished. "Of course I was upset. Who wouldn't be after hearing a thing like that? But for heavens sake, I never blamed you." She took his hand and looked up into his deep blue eyes. "Peter, I hope you're not still punishing yourself for your uncle Ben. Didn't I already tell you that it's water under the bridge, or some such thing?"

"I'm not, Aunt May," Peter replied gently. "Maybe I felt that way at first, because I was so strung out. But things are much different now." He gave her a reassuring smile. "I already tried to quit. I thought I could just go back to being normal again. But you know what I found out? There is no normal life for me to go back to. Spider-Man will always be a part of me. For better or worse, I have a responsibility to use my powers to help other people." To bring home the point, he added. "Where would you be now if Spider-Man wasn't there to rescue you from Dr. Octavius?"

As much as she hated to admit it, she realized that her nephew was probably right. "Alright, fine," she conceded. "Don't get me wrong. I'm proud of you for what you're doing and I understand why you feel compelled to do it. You're Uncle Ben is proud of you too, wherever he is." She put her hands on his shoulders. "But what about Mary Jane? She gave up everything to be with you. Doesn't she deserve to have a life with the man she loves?"

"Aunt May," Peter said patiently, taking care not to sound patronizing. "It wouldn't be any different if I was a police officer. Or a fireman. Or a Marine. Anyone who has to put their life on the line whenever he goes to work. M.J. understands that. Unless I'm reading her all wrong, I think she knows what she's getting into and is willing to accept the risk."

"Maybe now. But don't forget Peter, you're going to become a father one day, and when you do, you'll have new responsibilities. Mark my words, your priorities will change once you hold your baby in your arms for the first time. You won't want your children to grow up without a father, like you did."

She hit the bullseye with that one. "Okay, Aunt May. You win. I promise to think long and hard about it when the time comes."

But May was not finished yet. "One more thing, Peter. Please don't let anymore secrets come between us. I'm your mother for all intents and purposes. I'm here for you and Mary Jane. You can always talk to me about anything." She smiled. "Now, give your favorite aunt a big hug."

As he embraced the old woman, Peter realized that she had just handed him the perfect opportunity to broach a subject that he had been very reluctant to talk about. "Well, Aunt May," he began a little tentatively as he released her and sat down next to her on the edge of the bed. "Um . . . in the interest of being honest, as you know, Mary Jane and I love each other very, very much, and we want to get married as soon as possible. We sort of had to make a spur-of-the-moment decision, because M.J.'s lease is about to run out, and there's this reporter from the _Daily Bugle_ who's chasing her." His face started to flush and his hands began to quiver. "We went to look for a place this morning, and . . ." He was having an incredibly difficult time finishing his thought.

Aunt May finished it for him. "And you've decided to move in together?"

"Uh . . . yeah."

"And you're asking me if I approve?" Her tone became stern once again. "The answer is no."

Peter hung his head. He was sure that Aunt May was going to ask them both to leave.

Instead, she smiled. "But you don't really need my approval, do you?"

Peter wondered whether his hearing was out of whack. Was this really his very Catholic aunt talking? "You mean . . . are you saying it's okay?"

"Peter, 'in the interest of being honest,' I'm not crazy about the two of you living together before marriage. You know it goes against my grain. But that is your ring on her finger, isn't it?"

"Of course."

"And did you wait until after you gave her the ring before you did it?"

The shock of the question caught Peter completely off guard. "Um . . .er . . ," he stammered, a wave of crimson washing over his face.

"Peter, it's alright." May smiled slightly again, as if taking delight in watching her nephew get hot under the collar. "When a man and a woman are so in love that they are totally committed to each other, as you and M.J. obviously are, their sexual experience is . . . well let's just say that it's your private business and leave it at that. That's all I want for you. Now, can your dear old aunt give you a piece of prenuptial advice?"

"Er . . . sure," Peter replied, still looking embarrassed enough to want the ground to open and swallow him up.

"Don't be in such a rush to tie the knot."

Peter did not expect this. "Um . . . how long should we wait?"

"Until you graduate, at least."

Peter's jaw fell. "But that's two years away."

"Well, you could wait until after medical school."

"No thanks." He was still unsure if he had heard his aunt correctly. "Are you sure you won't have a problem with us living together for that long?"

"Peter, I wasn't born yesterday. I'm sure that Mr. Jameson is very angry with Mary Jane, and that the two of you have to . . . how do they say it . . . lay low until the heat wears off?"

"Uh huh," Peter murmured, feeling slightly ashamed at having underestimated his aunt's savvy.

"Two years is a long time. By then, Mary Jane's former beau will have found someone else, and Mr. Jameson will have long forgotten about it." She gave him a mock frown. "But for goodness sakes, wait until _after_ you're married before you have a baby!"

Peter struck his best boy scout pose. "You won't have to worry about that, Aunt May. That I can promise you."

"I was only teasing," Aunt May pointed out, wishing her nephew would lighten up a little bit and not take her so seriously all the time. "I know you'd never do anything that irresponsible. You've been a man practically all your life. I know I can count on you to do the right thing. Even if I don't agree with you, I'll always support you because I know your heart is in the right place."

Peter once again wrapped his muscular arms around the small, fragile-looking lady whose heart was made of gold. "I love you Aunt May," he said tearfully. "I love you so much, and I swear, I'll never let you down again, ever."

"Peter, you've _never_ let me down," May laughed softly. "Now I don't know about you, but I'm starving. Let's go have some lunch."

"I'm all for that," Peter declared as he opened the door for his aunt. She did not see the tiny flash of sadness in her nephew's eyes as he once again thought of those street people.

A dining room table laden with bagels, lox, and smoked turkey was waiting for them. May was about to lead them in saying grace when the third member of the Midtown trio suddenly popped into her mind. "How is dear Harry? Have you told him the news yet?"

Mary Jane and Peter exchanged glances, first at each other, and then, almost simultaneously, toward the floor. Peter reached across the table and clasped his aunt's hand in his. He took a deep breath. "Aunt May," he said slowly. Harry had a . . . a nervous breakdown. He's in Lenox Hill Hospital . . ."


	23. Frank's Wisdom

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**The portrayal of Harry's mental illness was inspired by Russell Crowe's performance in _A Beautiful Mind_, as well as the writings of Sylvia Browne and other noted psychics.**

**Axert is a medication used to treat migraine headaches. **

**DSM-IV is shorthand for the** **_Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders - Fourth Edition_.**

**Just before he went on his final rampage as the Green Goblin, Norman Osborn embraced Harry and told him that he loved him._ See_ Peter David_, Spider-Man: The Official Novelization of the Film_ (New York. Penguin Books, 2002), p. 283. **

**"I did it my way." — Frank Sinatra**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon: Spider-Man, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Spider-Man 2, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; Daredevil - Director's Cut, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and Hulk, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XXIII**

**FRANK'S WISDOM**

Despite the tremendous, chaotic workload in Lenox Hill's psychiatric ward, Dr. Anwar Muhammed Al Shaddai somehow managed to pray five times each day. He kept a small rug in his office for that purpose. A lean, dark-haired, Egyptian-born Sufi with the eyes of a swami, Dr. Al Shaddai was a third-year resident at the prestigious hospital. His parents, both doctors, had immigrated to the United States when he was five years old. He started medical school with an eye toward internal medicine, but later switched to psychiatry because of the challenges that field presented to Western notions about health and disease.

From working among African shamans as a Peace Corps volunteer between college and medical school, Dr. Al Shaddai had learned to perceive the human body as the manifestation of a richly subtle, complex, and all-encompassing reality beyond the reach of the five senses, not merely an isolated organism. He believed that the ultimate goal of any treatment regimen should always be the restoration of the patient's natural state of harmony with that greater reality, whether it was called Allah, Jehova, God, or Krishna.

Dr. Al Shaddai had just finished his prayers on Friday morning when his buzzer chimed. It was the nurse practitioner who supervised the morning shift.

"Good morning, Mrs. Fisher. How is our friend doing today?"

"Well, his conversations with that empty chair are getting spicier. But other than that, there's been no change since he came to."

"Has he been getting much sleep?"

"Off and on, usually an hour or two at a clip. Do you plan to increase his meds?"

Dr. Al Shaddai paused uncomfortably. His patient was being given the newest and most effective anti-psychotic medication, but was barely responding. "I think we had better consult with Dr. Lyons," he told the nurse. "We already have him on eight hundred milligrams of Seroquel. Any more than that and he could start having convulsions."

"Dr. Lyons is booked up through the end of next month, I'm afraid."

"She's my shift supervisor. She'll let us cut in line if its only a consultation. I'll administer the treatment myself. How is he getting along with the other patients?"

"Well, his roommate complains a lot. Oh, and Judy Wilson from the night shift saw him throw a tray at the television."

"Hmmmm. Maybe he should have his own room. Are there any single beds available?"

"Just a minute, Doctor." Nurse Fisher paused briefly. "Yes, room 206."

"Very good. Have him moved there after his morning therapy. I'll see him as soon as he's settled in."

Do you want me to explain the procedure to him?"

"I think it would be better if I did it."

"Okay, Doctor. I'll have him in Room 206 by noon."

"Thank you, Mrs. Fisher."

As Dr. Al Shaddai read through his patient's half-inch-thick file, he found himself being drawn into the case as if it were a mystery novel. The young man had been brought in by Spider-Man on Monday night, unconscious and suffering from acute alcohol poisoning. Al Shaddai shuddered when he saw how much liquor had been pumped from the man's stomach in the emergency room. He thanked Allah profusely that his religion forbade alcohol consumption and prayed that there would be no permanent brain damage.

But it was not until the patient regained consciousness that Dr. Al Shaddai was able to grasp the magnitude and complexity of his condition. The social worker's findings were deeply disturbing, centering mainly around unresolved boundary issues between the patient and his father. According to Mrs. Kennedy's report, the patient had grown up amidst incredible wealth, but had been emotionally starved. He had lost his mother at an early age, and had to suffer a father who seemed to revel not only in withholding love from a son who desperately needed it, but in actually heaping ridicule and scorn upon the boy. Worse, he openly bestowed his fatherly affections on his son's overachieving best friend, this Peter fellow who figured so prominently in the patient's delusions.

And yet, through it all, the patient had remained loyal to his father, insisting over and over again that his father loved him, which is what made his statement that his father had tried to kill him all the more shocking. But when Mrs. Kennedy tried to elicit details, he went into a seizure.

Tragically, the father had lost his life just as their relationship was beginning to heal. And then, without any preparation, education, or training, this orphan was suddenly thrust into the chair of a major corporation. The pressures must have been tremendous, made worse by the Octavius affair and the resulting grand jury probe. It did not help that the attack on the subways had been launched from a facility owned by his company. _Who wouldn't suffer a breakdown under circumstances like this?_ Dr. Al Shaddai wondered. For now, his working diagnosis would be paranoid schizophrenia coupled with major depression. But he was sure that there was more to this story than could be found in DSM-IV.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Harry Osborn stared listlessly at the television suspended from the wall in his new room, watching the local news. He had taken his morning meds barely an hour earlier, and was hoping that they would start working soon.

For the umpteenth time, the media was playing up Spider-Man's heroics in thwarting the terrorist operation. Harry's mood plunged as he watched yet another replay of the President showering the country's praises on his friend-turned-enemy. "It looks like you won after all, you lousy bastard," He muttered.

_"Giving up then, are we?"_

Harry's eyes widened. Sitting in the chair of the local news anchor, was his father, still wearing his black shirt and trousers. The station logo behind him was now the Green Goblin's mask.

Harry grabbed the remote and tried to shut the television off. But the remote wasn't working. He tried again and again, to no avail.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his pillow. When he opened them, the TV was off, but Norman was now in the room with him, pacing back and forth in front of his bed._ "Do you think I'm just going to let you shirk your responsibilities, like you always do?"_

"Let it go, Dad." Harry said. "It's over."

_"IT'S NOT OVER!"_ Norman roared._ "It won't be over until Peter Parker's shattered body is splayed out in the middle of the street!"_

_"_Pete saved my life," Harry pleaded. He wanted so much to believe what Peter had told him about his father's final moments. But he was still captive to Norman's murderous obsession with revenge, an obsession that fueled his hallucinations and landed him in the psych ward.

_"What the hell are you doing here, lying around on your ass, feeling sorry for yourself, when there's work to be done?"_ Norman demanded as he sat down on the edge of Harry's bed, his voice full of icy contempt.

"You ought to know," Harry said, still waiting for the drugs in his system to give him refuge from the ongoing hallucinatory assault. "It's because of you that I'm in this fucking place."

That set Norman off. _"It was Peter Parker! He was the one who destroyed your life, who took everything away from you, even your manhood!"_

Harry remained defiant, even in his weakened state. "It wasn't Peter who tried to kill me at the Unity Day festival!" Suddenly, he doubled over and buried his head between his knees. It was the only way he could escape the feeling that his stomach had just collided with his brain.

Fortunately, the doctor had just entered the room.

"He killed my father!" Harry screamed in the midst of his delirium tremens, a wave of nausea beginning to build in his gut.

"Who?" Dr. Al Shaddai asked.

"Spider-Man!"

The psychiatrist gave him a puzzled look. "I thought you said it was Peter who murdered your father."

Harry struggled to look his young physician in the eye. "Peter is Spider-Man. Don't you get it?"

It was obvious from the doctor's expression that Al Shaddai thought this was just another delusion.

_"Of course he doesn't believe you, you weak, miserable little son of a bitch! Who would believe a nut case?"_

"Harry, are you having another migraine?"

"Y-yeah," Harry panted as he reached for a bedpan.

Just in time . . .

Dr. Al Shaddai turned away as Harry vomited, touching the intercom on the wall. "Jamal, I need two Axert tablets right away," he told an orderly, who quickly appeared with a cup of water and the requested medication.

Al Shaddai gently prodded Harry to lift his head while the orderly cleaned him up. "Take these. They'll start working in a few minutes."

Desperate to get his head out of the vise, Harry swallowed both pills.

Dr. Al Shaddai moved the rolling tray table aside and sat down in the space vacated by Norman. The elder Osborn, meanwhile, had resumed his highly agitated pacing near the window.

"I take it that your father is in the room with us?" Dr. Al Shaddai observed.

_"Don't listen to this quack, Harry! Be your own man. Stand on your feet and be strong . . ."_

Harry stared at his doctor in amazement. That was the last thing he expected to hear from a shrink. "You mean, you actually believe me?"

_"Tell this ignorant fool to mind his own goddamn business!"_

_"_I do." Al Shaddai seemed to be following Harry's head and eye movements very closely. "I think you might be psychic. Unfortunately, your gift seems to be getting the better of you at the moment."

_"He doesn't know what he's talking about!"_

_"_Shut up!" Harry yelled, his strength and courage somewhat renewed by the pain killer he had just taken.

"I'm sorry, Harry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I wasn't talking to you," he snapped at his psychiatrist.

_"You'd trust a complete stranger more than your own father? Harry, you're my flesh and blood!"_

_"_You're dead!" Harry closed his eyes tightly once again and slammed his hands against his ears, trying to exorcize Norman.

"Very good, Harry," Al Shaddai encouraged. His empathic spirituality made him a favorite among the patients. "It's important to recognize that he is no longer a part of this world."

_"Noooooooooooooo! Harry! Goddamn you! Don't you dare betray our secret."_

Harry opened his eyes again. He appeared exhausted. "I could really use a drink right now."

"I know you've been under a great deal of stress these past few years," Al Shaddai soothed. "Drinking will only make your visions more vivid."

"Don't you mean hallucinations?"

"That depends on the context, doesn't it?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Have you ever heard of Saint Bernadette?"

Harry gave Al Shaddai an uncomprehending look.

"Bernadette was a young French girl who claimed to have had visions of the Virgin Mary. Those visions were as real to her as I am to you."

"Did they burn her as a witch?"

"No. The Church made her a saint and consecrated the place where she had her visions as a holy shrine. Her visions gave hope to thousands of people, which was why she was made a saint. Do you see how powerful a label can be?"

Harry was utterly baffled. "What's your point?"

"Some of my colleagues might have diagnosed Saint Bernadette as being schizophrenic."

A faint glimmer of hope appeared in Harry's eyes. "Hold on a minute, doctor. Are you saying that there might not be anything wrong with me after all?"

Dr. Al Shaddai shook his head. "You have a condition that enables you to see things that other people can't. What you call that condition doesn't matter from a medical perspective, but in the eyes of the larger society, it impacts significantly." He gazed thoughtfully into Harry's eyes, hoping to put his shattered mind back together. "You think about your father a lot, don't you?"

"Every single day."

"Bernadette was brought up in a very religious household. From the time she was a little girl, she ate, drank, and breathed the mother of Jesus."

"So?" Harry was still not sure what to make of what the doctor was telling him.

"Isn't it obvious? Aren't you seeing and hearing exactly what you're thinking about?"

Harry lay back in his bed, feeling emboldened, now that the Axert was taking effect. "Well, I've got a question for you . . ."

_"I'm part of you, Harry. I LIVE in you."_

" . . . Is my father really here, or is he just in my mind?"

"That is something which I am afraid science and medicine can't tell us." Dr. Al Shaddai smiled reassuringly. "But the fact that you are questioning the reality of his presence bodes well for your prognosis."

Harry sighed and stared straight up at the ceiling. "I can't even look into a mirror anymore without seeing his face."

"I take it he wants you to think and act in a certain way, and makes things very unpleasant if you don't toe the line."

"That's when I get these really bad headaches and start throwing up."

"And does that happen whenever Peter comes up in the conversation?"

With his head sinking to his chest and his shoulders slumping, Harry nodded. "That's the only time it happens," he whispered.

"We can help you, Harry, if you'll let us."

Harry gazed at Al Shaddai, his expression of hope laced with a suspicion that was not really his. "How?"

_"Without me, you're nothing . . ."_

"There is a physiological component to psychic phenomena, just as there is with mental illness." Al Shaddai explained. "That's the part that we can work with, the brain. You see, all of us are born with some level of psychic capability. We're like radios. Most of us never use these abilities. But there are those who can tune into much subtler frequencies that other people cannot reach. Are you with me so far?"

"Yes."

"In most people, psychic visions are harmless, and are often beneficial, as with Saint Bernadette," Al Shaddai continued. "But in some people, particularly those who are vulnerable to stress, the visions can be quite frightening, especially if they cause the person to lose touch with themselves. In your case, your father seems to want to live again, through you."

Norman shrieked like a vampire being exposed to the sun.

Harry tried to ignore him. "Are you saying that I'm able to conjure up my dad from wherever he is?"

"I'm not sure that I would go that far," Al Shaddai continued. "But it is Mrs. Kennedy's learned opinion that you're having quite a serious problem in defining your sense of self. In our business, it is what we call 'setting boundaries.' If you allow him to take over, your own personality might be extinguished. The only way we can prevent this from happening is to shut down the channel."

_"Don't you dare!"_

"How can you do that?"

"As I said earlier, we have to tweak your brain chemistry a little bit. This is usually accomplished through medication. Unfortunately, your symptoms are unusually resilient. We can't increase your dosage anymore than we have, and quite frankly, I have concerns about addiction."

"So, what are we supposed to do, Doctor?"

Al Shaddai stroked his chin. "I think you would make an excellent candidate for electroconvulsive therapy."

_"YOU CAN"T SILENCE ME, HARRY!"_

"Shock treatments?"

"We call it ECT now."

But Harry did not like where the conversation was leading. "No, no way. I don't want to end up like a zombie."

"Trust me on this, my friend. It's nothing like what you see in the movies. There won't be any after effects, other than a slight headache for an hour or two. But more important, we'll be able to reduce your medication quite substantially. After ECT, we won't need more than one hundred milligrams to keep your hallucinations at bay."

But there was more to Harry's resistance than his misplaced fears about the treatment. "You don't understand. My father told me he loved me before he died. He still tells me he loves me." Tears started to form in the corners of Harry's eyes. "We have a relationship now that we never had when he was ali— . . . around. I can't lose him again."

Dr. Al Shaddai recognized right away that, as tormented as Harry was, he depended on his father for validation of his worthiness. His answer was deeply sympathetic, but firm in its resolve. "It seems to be a very one-sided relationship, Harry. Is it worth losing your selfhood, giving up everything makes you unique, spending the rest of your life doomed to live out your father's obsessions? Is that the price you're willing to pay?"

Harry cast his eyes toward the floor. "My father loves me," he reiterated defensively.

"Then why did you tell Mrs. Kennedy that he tried to kill you?"

_"Are you going to let this little worm stand in our way? Damn you, Harry, Peter is out there now, trampling over my grave, taking all the glory that should have been mine . . ."_

Without warning, Harry bolted up, his eyes ablaze. "Peter didn't kill you, goddammit!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, startling Dr. Al Shaddai. "You did it to yourself!"

Norman screamed as if a stake had been driven through his heart.

Harry sat back, closed his eyes, and waited for the wave of nausea to wash over him. When it did not come, he cautiously opened his eyes. Norman was still there, glaring furiously at him. But he was no longer speaking.

Regaining his composure, Dr. Al Shaddai gently patted Harry on the shoulder. "You obviously want to be your own person."

A newly confident Harry turned toward his doctor. "See," he asserted, "I _can_ think for myself. I don't need shock treatments."

Dr. Al Shaddai did not waver. "It's good that you're able to defy your father. But your resolve might be hard to sustain once the meds wear off. ECT is still your best line of defense."

Harry was beginning to see the wisdom of the psychiatrist's position. "If I undergo this treatment, does it mean that I won't see my father anymore?"

"I can't promise you that," Dr. Al Shaddai said. "The best we can hope for is that he remains on the periphery. But I can definitely say that he won't be able to hurt you. You will be the one to dictate the terms of your relationship, not him. That's what our goal should be." Sensing that Harry needed more time, Al Shaddai added, "You don't have to undergo ECT if you don't want to. But the course of your treatment will progress much more quickly if you do. I suggest you think about it."

"I will."

"Alright then. I'll see you this evening."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Harry sat by himself in the patient's lounge, long after his group therapy session was over. It was an eye-opening experience to be surrounded by real people who had experienced hardships beyond anything he could imagine.

Many of his fellow patients were victims of severe and prolonged trauma. One young woman had been raped repeatedly by her father. An older man had been diagnosed with severe autism and was barely functioning. For these people, the goal was just to get through one more day. Harry vowed that when he got out, he would set up a charity to help the mentally ill.

Unfortunately, his father was in the lounge with him. But Norman neither approached him nor spoke to him. He merely continued his agitated pacing in front of the windows on the opposite side of the room, throwing a menacing glance in Harry's direction every once in a while.

Harry had to admit that his father was right about one thing. Now that he had been officially diagnosed as schizophrenic, his credibility was down to zero. He could shout out Peter's secret in the middle of Times Square, right in J. Jonah Jameson's face, for all the good it would do him.

But for a few more hours at least, Harry would be able hold his own against Norman without suffering physical repercussions.

_"Coming up on CNN Headline News . . . The fate of Oscorp . . ."_

Harry's head jerked up and his heart started racing as CNN's business reporter came on the air.

_"CNN has learned that the grand jury looking into allegations of criminal conduct by the huge defense contractor has recommended that all charges against the company and its youthful chairman be dropped . . ."_

Harry gasped. Between the civil and criminal cases, he had been expecting a legal avalanche.

Another patient, meanwhile, was reaching for the remote, intent on changing the channel.

"Leave it!" Harry barked.

Startled, the man jumped back.

The broadcast cut away to the District Attorney's office. Standing in front of the podium was the D.A., Pat Hamilton. Her expression was subdued as she delivered a brief announcement. _"The grand jury concluded that there was not enough evidence to go forward with an indictment . . ."_

"Bitch!" Harry grumbled.

_"What about the civil suits?"_ a reporter asked the D.A.

_"Well, it's hard to make a case when you have a mentally incapacitated defendant,"_ Ms. Hamilton responded._ "But I wish them well."_

Harry could not believe his stroke of good fortune. He was off the hook, which meant that they never connected him to Otto Octavius. And that meant . . .

He looked around the lounge for his father. But Norman was nowhere to be seen.

"You were wrong about Pete, Dad," he whispered. "He kept his promise, just like he said he would."

For the first time in weeks, thoughts of Peter Parker did not torture him. As Harry pondered those thoughts, a question popped into his mind._ How did he get his powers in the first place?_ The first inkling was when Peter flattened Flash Thompson, the day after . . . the field trip_ . . . Of course, that had to be it! Something happened to Peter that day . . ._ His mind was racing now . . . _M.J. told them that a spider was missing . . . Oh, my God ._

And then, it came to him.

Harry had to stop to catch his breath as a flash of light exploded inside his head. Ideas were spinning out of his mind so fast that he could not keep up with them. Without any conscious effort on his part, those ideas coalesced into a plan of action, a vision that was both dazzlingly brilliant and elegantly simple.

What if the phenomenon that had spawned the wallcrawler could be replicated? _Oscorp_ could create a whole army of spider-men, the most formidable soldiers in the world. Just one platoon of spider-soldiers could wipe out entire armies . . . . or terrorists.

And he had the resources to make it happen. He would be rich beyond his wildest dreams, a billionaire many times over.

All he had to do was unlock the secret that lay hidden in Peter's DNA.

But first, he would have to get out of here and finish settling his business affairs.

Harry could faintly hear his father's screams of protest. "No, Dad. I'm not going to fight your battle with Peter anymore. From now on, we're going to do this thing my way! And when it's all done, I'll have succeeded where you failed."

He ran to the nurses' station.

"Yes, Mr. Osborn?"

"Tell Dr. Shaddai to schedule me for ECT as fast as possible."


	24. Blackest of the Black

**TWIN DEMONS by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**The phrase, "in the loop," means having access to information about high-level policy decisions, or otherwise participating in the decision-making process.**

**The State Department's headquarters is located in a section of Washington, DC called "Foggy Bottom."**

**The reference to General Ross knowing Colin Powell comes from: Peter David, _Hulk - The Official Novelization of the Film_, (New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2003), p. 123.**

**A quick word to clear up confusion regarding some common U.S. government acronyms. NSC refers to the National Security Council, which is in the White House. NSA stands for "National Security Agency," an organization within the Department of Defense responsible for intelligence-gathering. **

**The flashback of the conversation between General Ross and Dr. Ross is taken, verbatim from: Peter David, _Hulk - The Official Novelization of the Film_, (New York, Random House Publishing Group, 2003), p. 335.**

**In the United States Congress, the appropriations committees of the House and the Senate are primarily responsible for funding the government. Hence, the importance, and influence, of those committees cannot be overstated.**

**The "Iron Triangle" is a term used to describe the symbiotic, albeit some would say incestuous relationship among the military services, the big defense contractors, and the congressional committees having oversight responsibilities for the armed forces. _See_ Hedrick Smith, _The Power Game - How Washington Works_, (New York, Random House Publishing Group 1988), p. 173. **

**ROTC stands for "Reserve Officer Training Corps." _See_ goarmy dot com, slash rotc.**

**"Top Secret" is the highest level of classification in the U.S. Government. It covers information, the unauthorized disclosure of which could be expected to cause exceptionally grave damage to national security. _See_ Executive Order No. 13292 (March 28, 2003). **

**USAP (Pronounced "you sap") is the acronym for "Unacknowledged Special Access Program," a classifed government program, the existence of which is known only to properly authorized personnel. _See _National Industrial Security Program Operating Manual Supplement, Section 1-107(b) (December 29, 1994).**

**SCI (Pronounced "sky")is the acronym for "Sensitive Compartmented Information." SCI includes any information concerning intelligence sources, methods, or processes that is required to be handled within formal systems of access control. _See _Director of Central Intelligence Directive 1/19 (March 1, 1995).**

**A presidential finding confirms that the President of the United States has personally authorized a covert action, "finding" it to be in the national security interests of the nation. _See_ the National Security Archive website. **

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:_ Spider-Man_, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Spider-Man 2_, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; _Daredevil - Director's Cut_, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and _Hulk_, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XXIV**

**BLACKEST OF THE BLACK**

"Welcome General Ross." The Secretary of State's receptionist stood to greet the CIA Director-designate as he stepped off the elevator at the headquarters of the State Department. "General Powell is waiting for you. You can go right in."

"Thank you, ma'am," General Ross acknowledged as he entered the enormous suite on the top floor of the venerable Foggy Bottom fortress. He saluted as the Secretary of State stepped out of his office to greet him. They had known each other for close to four decades, since they first saw action together in Vietnam.

"You don't have to salute me, Thad," the Secretary joked. "I've been out of uniform for over ten years now."

"Force of habit, sir." Ross replied with a tight smile. For this occasion at least, he had exchanged his army uniform for a business suit, which he wore as well as he had thirty years earlier. At his confirmation hearings the next day, however, he would be in full dress uniform, medals and all.

"I've arranged for dinner, just the two of us." the Secretary said as he escorted his one-time commanding officer toward his private dining room. On the walls of the elegantly appointed foyer were mounted portraits of former secretaries of state, going all the way back to Thomas Jefferson. Ross could not escape the feeling that every single pair of eyes in those paintings was bearing down on him.

Ross's eyes widened a bit as he entered what could easily have passed for one of Washington DC's finest restaurants. "I assume this is official business, sir?"

"It is," the Secretary informed him. "I've penciled this session in as a briefing, to prepare you for your confirmation hearings." The Secretary paused, then added with a grin, "You might want to save the 'sirs' for the senators."

Dinner was a subdued affair, more so than the Secretary would have expected on an occasion when two old friends got together. The Secretary was not surprised, however. General Ross was a man of few words, even among his closest friends. He always had difficulty beginning a conversation with informalities.

But the salt began to fly soon enough. "I'd like to shoot the son of a bitch who recommended me for this job," Ross grumbled good-naturedly, suspecting that the culprit was sitting across the table from him.

"Well then, Thad, I expect you'll have to shoot the whole lot of us."

"Us?"

"The President asked his entire national security team who they thought was best suited to lead the CIA during this rather difficult transition. Yours was the only name that showed up on every list." The Secretary reached over and clapped his hand on Ross's shoulder. "You should feel honored."

Ross picked at his Beef Wellington. "I would've thought that my lack of tolerance for bullshit would've rendered me unsuitable for such a 'politically sensitive' post."

The Secretary ignored the sarcastic edge in Ross's voice. "You modernized NSA's satellite intelligence-gathering system during your tenure there. Human intel needs a similar overhaul."

"Someone's obviously got their head stuck up their ass," the general retorted. "I'm just an old artillery grunt. I have no idea how to run a civilian agency."

"Let me tell you what the difference is," the Secretary lectured. "In the military, when you tell a subordinate to jump, he'll ask how high. Give the same order to a civilian, and he'll ask, 'just what do you mean by jump'." The Secretary looked his old comrade straight in the eye. He suspected that Ross was holding something back. "Come on, Thad. You and I could always shoot straight with each other. Tell me, what's on your mind."

Ross turned from the Secretary and looked out the window. "I was filling out the paperwork for my retirement when the President called."

That piece of news caught the Secretary by surprise. "I didn't know that."

Ross gazed at the floodlit Washington Monument, off in the distance. "I have fewer days ahead than behind, Colin. I was hoping that in the time I've got left, I could finally be a father to my daughter, maybe make up for all the times that my responsibilities got in the way of our relationship." His voice trailed off as he recalled one of his last conversations with Betty, just before she received her appointment to Columbia University's medical school . . .

"_I love him. I always will; And I pray to God every night and every morning that he never tries to see me or talk to me again for the rest of my life."_

"_I'm so sorry Betty, I am so sorry . . ."_

"It was over a cell phone, Colin. I haven't seen her in months."

The Secretary could sympathize deeply. He knew that Ross could not decline the President's call to service anymore than he could. To do so would have been a breach of the military ethos bred to their very bones. They were soldiers who placed loyalty to their country above everything else in their lives, even their loved ones. When the Commander-in-Chief called, Ross's only acceptable answer was, "yes, Mr. President."

But there were other issues on the general's mind. And Ross was not shy about airing them. He turned back toward the Secretary.

"A lot of things have happened since you retired, Colin. The iron triangle's becoming a noose around the necks of all the services."

The Secretary was not sure what the general was driving at, but he was sure it had something to do with Ross's last active duty assignment. "Go on, Thad." he encouraged.

"Rumors are flying around that _Oscorp_'s gonna swallow up _Atheon_ and _Quest_." Ross began uneasily. "If that merger goes through, nearly forty percent of our defense infrastructure will be under the control of that dumb-ass kid who almost blew New York City to smithereens. And nobody's raising a stink about it."

The Secretary still had his contacts throughout the iron triangle. "Actually, Thad, that's not what happened. The Defense Department objected vigorously, but was overruled by the Vice President's office."

"For God's sakes, why?"

"Politics, plain and simple. _Oscorp_ is one of the largest defense contractors in the country, if not the world. It employs people in every state. It has enormous clout in the Administration and on Capitol Hill, especially in the appropriations committees. With an election coming up, nobody wants to piss off a major campaign contributor."

"So, more of our troops are going to get killed because a bunch of Congressmen and Senators who don't know their asses from a hole in the ground keep pushing these so-called 'state of the art' weapons technologies that aren't worth a pile of horse dump. Godammit, Colin, our people need armor. They need spare parts for tanks, supply-line protection, not radioactive green giants running around wreaking havoc."

So, that was it, the Secretary realized. "Are you afraid that Angry Man might still be out there somewhere?"

"He is, Colin. I'm goddamned sure of it."

"But he hasn't been seen since that explosion."

"He takes a ride to the top of the world, where he should've froze up and shattered like glass. It didn't even faze him. Then he survives a thirty-mile free-fall. But the worst part of it is that we could have more angry men on our hands."

"What makes you think so?"

"After my men took Banner's father into custody, I gave orders that his lab and everything in it be destroyed — notes, computers, equipment, the whole barrel. The team that went into that place found rats the size of chimps and God only knows what else. Three months later, I find out that certain unnamed personnel from _Atheon_ countermanded my orders behind my back, apparently with NSA's blessing. They took everything, and I'm damn sure that stuff isn't gathering dust somewhere in their basement. Who knows what they'll do with it, now that they've got access to _Oscorp_'s money."

The Secretary did not have an answer. In earlier administrations, he might have been able to use his influence with the president to stop a questionable merger.

But not in this administration.

"I'm afraid there's nothing I can do, Thad," he said. "In fact, I don't think I'm going to be asked back for the second term, assuming that the President gets re-elected." He did not have to ask Ross to keep that news to himself.

"I suppose I'm going to be the new fall guy," the general lamented, the realities of politics becoming all too apparent.

"Are you going to resign your commission?"

Ross shook his head and allowed himself to smile, something he rarely did. "Didn't they teach you ROTC guys about strategic retreat?"

From knowing Ross for so long, the Secretary was able to pick up his ex-commander's train of thought right away. "You want to keep the option of requesting national command authority override."

As a four-star general, Ross was one of only a handful of military officers who, in the event of a national emergency, could assume operational command of all or part of the nation's armed forces. NCAO had given him command authority over a squadron of Air Force F-22 fighter jets in the battle against the Hulk.

It was a trump card that he had refused to part with when he was first approached about taking over CIA. He would have had to relinquish it if he had retired or resigned from the army.

"I hope it never comes to that, Colin," he said. "But I don't have to read the budget to know that _Atheon_'s in bed with CIA. They've probably got black ops contracts that I'll never know about. If one of those programs fouls up on my watch, I'll want access to whatever I'll need to clean up the mess."

"I see your point, Thad." The Secretary said. "And I concur."

Together, the two old soldiers looked out the window, contemplating an uncertain future.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

A meeting that officially never took place had convened in a secured region of cyberspace. The participants, all seasoned _Atheon_ operatives with decades of experience in ultra-secret government projects, conversed in a code inaccessible to everyone but those who possessed the highest security clearances. Thanks to an extremely complex and constantly changing compartmentalization scheme, none of them even knew each other's names; they addressed each other only by aliases.

"I just got the word from our man at CIA," the team leader, known only as Coach, informed the others. "The President just greenlighted Operation Archangel."

"Will we be getting the contract, Coach?" one of the participants asked.

Coach rolled his eyes. _A greenhorn, no doubt,_ he thought. "We already have it," he replied patiently. "It's a no-bid." No-bid contracts were awarded when there was only one company who could deliver the requested services, and _Atheon_ had more than its share.

"What's the timetable, Coach?" another participant inquired.

"Now that the merger with _Oscorp_ has been approved, we'll have all the resources we need to execute the program within three years."

"Classification?" a third wanted to know.

"Top secret," Coach informed her. "You sap sky."

Everyone at the meeting knew what that designation meant. Operation Archangel would carry a classification so high that even denying its existence would be regarded as a security breach. No one outside of the contractor personnel charged with developing and implementing the program would be in the loop, not the CIA Director, not the contractor's CEO, not even the President of the United States himself. And even within the program, each operative would be given only enough information to complete his or her assigned tasks.

In short, Operation Archangel would be among the blackest of black operations.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

CIA Case Officer Carlos Menendez raised his eyebrows as read the highly classified national security finding bearing the President's signature. A grizzled Intelligence Directorate veteran who had grown up in Puerto Rico, Menendez had earned undergraduate and graduate degrees at the University of Pennsylvania, and was recruited right out of school. He had served in the Office of Latin American Affairs for many years prior to being appointed to his current post in the Office of Terrorism Analysis. Menendez was one of only ten case officers throughout the entire agency whose security clearance was high enough to allow him to at least be made aware of the existence of ultra-classified programs.

The presidential finding described the administration's foreign policy objectives in benign, lofty-sounding language. Phrases like, "optimizing intelligence assets," "neutralizing hostile elements," and "spreading democracy" peppered the document. But anyone who could strip away the euphemistic cloak would quickly discern that this finding had nothing to do with intelligence-gathering. In reality, the President had authorized the creation of an elite corps of operatives whose sole purpose would be to identify, track, and eliminate threats to U.S. national security, wherever and whenever they might arise. The terrorists will be wiped off the face of the Earth, Menendez thought, along with their backers and their sympathizers.

Through a highly-secured channel, Menendez transmitted the finding to his counterpart at _Atheon_. Although he was nominally the CIA's contract supervisor for _Atheon_, he would have no knowledge of the operational details of the program that the company would develop to implement the finding. The labyrinth of security protocols encountered at the top-secret classification would render practical oversight all but impossible. Menendez's real job would be to devise a "white" cover for _Atheon_ by scattering its program elements throughout the agency's public budget. It was a time-honored way of hiding classified programs in plain sight. If he did it right, then not even the most savvy congressional auditors would be able to connect the dots, and the program would never see the light of day.

Menendez was sure that the almost-successful attack on New York City's subways had prompted the President to sign off on the finding. He was also convinced that the CIA's senior leadership was too hidebound, too steeped in the romantic myths about the glory days of the agency's clandestine operations to appreciate how time-consuming, costly, and dangerous this mission would be. And, like the political appointees over at the Defense Department, they had been seduced by dubious promises of performance-enhancing technologies from companies like _Atheon_ and _Oscorp_. In his view, taxpayer dollars would have been better spent on equipping agents with the language and cultural skills they would need in order to do the top-flight intelligence-gathering necessary to win the fight against terrorism. Faulty intelligence had already resulted in one foreign policy debacle, and if something went wrong with this program, there would surely be another. 

Menendez did not like working with contractors, particularly from _Atheon_. From prior experience, he found _Atheon's _people to be rude, arrogant, and often reckless in their handling of dangerous operations. That Hulk business out at Desert Base was a case-in-point. He had other concerns as well. When his supervisor had asked for his input on the proposed merger between _Oscorp_, _Quest_, and _Atheon_, he gave it a thumbs-down, citing the Hulk and Octavius incidents as well as the mental breakdown of _Oscorp_'s chairman. His chain of command had approved the draft memorandum, all the way up the line, until it reached the Deputy Director. A few hours later, the draft was returned with directions that the merger be approved. The normally even-tempered analyst nearly had a fit. "They can't be serious, Valerie. How do they expect Osborn to get a security clearance?"

"I agree with you Carlos," the supervisor replied sympathetically. "That was exactly the point I tried to make. But do you know what the deputy told me?"

"I can only imagine."

"He said, and I quote, 'With his track record, Osborn could leak classified data until his heart's content, but who'd believe him?'"

"¡Esos idiotas!" he had muttered under his breath when he left his supervisor's office. He hoped that General Ross and the rest of the incoming leadership team was of a different ilk.

Menendez could tell from the finding that _Atheon's_ new program would require a special breed of individual, the kind that the agency always craved, but could never get enough of. In spite of his misgivings about the mission, he could not help but be impressed. In the entire world, there were probably fewer than one hundred people who could make the first cut. And he knew all of them.

Or so he thought. Unbeknownst to him, the first Archangel had already been recruited.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Assistant District Attorney Jean DeWolff was on track to become a career prosecutor, remaining with the Manhattan D.A.'s office long after most of her colleagues had departed for private practice. A strawberry blond with angular cheeks and an athletic build, DeWolff held a fourth degree black belt in Tai Kwon Do and had been a varsity soccer player in college. Since the beginning of her legal career, she had displayed a flair for litigation, having easily won the prestigious Jessup International Moot Court Competition in her third year at N.Y.U.'s law school.

As an up-and-coming assistant D.A., DeWolff made her mark early and often. She jumped right into narcotics prosecutions and expanded her portfolio to include white collar crime. The Kingpin trial had marked the pinnacle of her career. As lead prosecutor, she was a tigress in the court room, using finely honed cross-examination techniques to tear the credibility of the defense's witnesses to shreds. It had taken the jury barely an hour to reach its guilty verdict.

Jean DeWolff was not intimidated by the defense attorneys from the old-line Park Avenue law firms. She relished every chance she had to do battle with them, so that she could prove the irrelevance of law school grades as predictors of professional success. And most of the time, she left her opponents with the feeling that they made a mistake in not hiring her.

In fact, there was only one member the defense bar that had impressed her. Early in her career, she was prosecuting a suspected drug dealer. The man had entered a plea of not guilty at the urging of his defense counsel. Thinking that the case was open and shut, she had seriously underestimated her opponent's skill and tenacity. Against seemingly insurmountable odds, this blind attorney had proven his client's innocence.

At six forty-five on Friday evening, DeWolff took a call from the deputy warden at Ryker's Island.

"Okay. I'll let her know right away." She promptly dialed her boss.

"What is it?" Pat Hamilton snapped at her subordinate. The Manhattan D.A. was obviously still reeling from the body blow her office had taken when the grand jury dropped the city's case against _Oscorp_.

Unfazed, DeWolff got right to the point. "That contract assassin that Fisk hired to kill Nicholas Natchios and his daughter — he succumbed to his injuries this morning."

But to DeWolff's surprise, the D.A. almost seemed relieved. "It doesn't really matter, Jean. We got the big fish, or should I say, the whale. Call Ryker's back. Tell them to send over the autopsy report and the death certificate so we can close out the case."

"Yes, ma'am."

DeWolff breathed a small sigh of relief as she hung up the phone. She was afraid that Pat would drop another case on her at the last minute.

"You seem a bit jumpy, Jean." It was her office mate, Assistant D.A. Cheryl Thomas.

"I've got a date," DeWolff said as she gathered up her things and put her coat on.

"Never thought I'd hear you say that. Do I know him?"

"You've seen him around."

"You're not going to tell me who it is, are you Jean?"

"I'm superstitious," DeWolff answered. "See you on Monday, Cheryl."


	25. Guardian Demons

**TWIN DEMONS**** by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**Wegmans is the name of a well known gourmet supermarket chain on the East Coast of the United States.**

**Part of Peter and Matt's conversation is taken from: Paul Jenkins, Phil Winslade, and Tom Palmer, **_**Marvel Knights - Daredevil / Spider-Man - Unusual Suspects, Volume IV**_** (New York, Marvel Comics, Inc. 2001).**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:**_** Spider-Man**_**, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Spider-Man 2**_**, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Daredevil - Director's Cut**_**, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and **_**Hulk**_**, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XXV**

**GUARDIAN DEMONS**

"Oh, Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?"

Mary Jane had launched into an off-the-cuff turn at Shakespeare as she stood on the veranda overlooking their enormous new living room.

"Here I art thou, oh Juliet, my beautiful angel." As Peter gazed up at her from the living room floor, he got down on one knee and spread his arms wide in a gesture of complete devotion to his lady love, improvising as best he could. "My eyes cannot turneth away from thee. My arms longeth to hold thee . . ."

"Then getteth thy arse up here and kisseth me already!"

He leaped off the floor, did a double flip, and landed right beside her behind the balustrade.

"Thou art such a show-off," she laughed softly as she gathered him in her arms, eagerly pressing her lips against his.

They looked over the apartment, admiring their handiwork. In less than twenty-four hours, Peter had managed to move himself and Mary Jane from Greenwich Village to Hell's Kitchen without drawing any unwanted attention. Long before sunrise, he had hauled his meager belongings all the way from his old apartment on Carmine street, a distance of over fifty blocks. In the morning, he had rented a _U-Haul_ truck, helped Mary Jane pack, and discretely wheeled her furniture out through the freight elevator. Everything had gone smoothly, but Peter was constantly looking over his shoulder, ready to vanish in an instant if Eddie Brock showed his face.

They had spent the whole afternoon unloading the truck, shopping for groceries, and getting their new apartment organized. Mary Jane marveled as she watched Peter effortlessly move her bed, her dresser, and her other furniture into place. Later, while M.J. took a shower and got ready for her gig, Peter returned the truck and brought in a pizza.

But there was still a little work left to do.

"Do we have time to finish setting up the loft, M.J.?"

"About twenty minutes," she told him, knowing that she would have to depart for the Lyric about an hour earlier than she did from her old place in order to make her curtain.

This loft was smaller than the one Peter had in the apartment he once shared with Harry Osborn, but large enough to accommodate the bed, desk, and the dorm fridge he had brought over from Ditkovitch's place. It had a tiny wardrobe closet and two doors, one of which opened to the veranda. The other led to the spiral stairway that connected the loft to the first floor. A single skylight straddled the middle of the sloping ceiling.

For Peter, it was the loft that had sealed the deal. It would be the perfect place for him to do his homework without disturbing M.J. But more important, the skylight opened onto a roof that was partially obscured by a water tower, which would allow him to slip in and out of the apartment virtually unobserved.

It was a far-better set-up than those rickety French doors.

"How come you brought your old bed with you?" Mary Jane asked when she saw his things piled up in a corner of the room.

"I'll have to sleep somewhere until we get married."

She thrust her hand into his crotch. "You better be kidding." To make sure he understood her point, she squeezed.

It took less than five minutes to get everything organized and put away. Peter moved his bed into one corner and his desk into another, plugged in his fridge, and set up his ancient computer while Mary Jane unpacked his rather small wardrobe from a plastic garbage bag. She reverently lifted his costume out of the bag and hung it up in the closet, placing the boots on the floor and the gloves and mask on the top shelf.

"Hey Pete," she said. "Why don't you give this place a name?"

"Okay. How about, 'the Spider's Web'?"

"Nah. Sound's like a strip joint. Beside's it's kind of obvious."

Unfortunately, the Bat Cave and the Fortress of Solitude were both taken.

"I got one," he said after giving the matter a little more thought, "The Tiger's Den."

Mary Jane smiled. "Now _that_ I like." She looked around at the bare, shell-white ceiling and walls. "You know, this room could really use some pictures."

"You're absolutely right, honey." He darted downstairs and was back in less than a minute with the three-by-five-foot posters of M.J.'s _Emma Rose _billboard and rave notice from _Earnest_. She had kept them hidden under her bed.

But Mary Jane seemed less than enthusiastic. "That isn't exactly what I had in mind, Peter. You don't have to put me on a pedestal anymore."

"I'm not putting you on a pedestal, Mary Jane. I'm gonna put you on the ceiling."

"Go away," she laughed.

"No, really. I want to be able to look into those magical eyes of yours when I'm stuck up here, having to pull an all-nighter."

"Peter Parker, you are such a trip."

Outside, the setting sun bathed the city in a bright orange glow. Mary Jane checked her watch. "Gotta go to work, Tiger."

They kissed again.

"Are you going to take a cab?" Peter asked.

"Of course. Don't you think I know better than to take the subway at night?" She quickly opened her change purse, making sure that it was full. "I'll call from that payphone we saw in the lobby."

"Well, you still need to keep an eye out for Eddie."

"Stop worrying so much. I'll just pay the taxi driver a few extra dollars to meander around the city a bit. My friend Louise says that the way most cabbies drive, they can easily lose a tail."

"How would she know that?"

"She used to date a paparazzi. He would tell her all sorts of war stories about trying to trap celebrities in compromising positions and losing them in car chases."

"I can't imagine that relationship lasted very long."

"It didn't. She broke up with the guy when she found out he was just using her to get dirt on a famous actress she once knew."

"Well, M.J., I hope she's right. I don't want Eddie finding out where we live on the very day we move in."

"I'll do my best." Mary Jane briefly glanced at Peter's costume. "And you be careful too tonight, all right?"

"You bet." He gave her a long, drawn-out hug. "Now, go knock 'em dead. And try not to get home too late. This neighborhood still looks pretty rough."

"Yes, daddy." She glided down the spiral stairs, picked up her grey button-down sweater, and was out the front door. "Later, love," she called out over her shoulder.

Peter lay on his bed, unable to turn his starry-eyed gaze away from the images of Mary Jane that were now directly overhead. As tired as he was from the day's work, he never felt happier in his life. He would be living like a human being again, sharing a love nest with the woman of his dreams.

M.J. would not be home for hours, and those hours would seem like years if he did not find something to occupy his mind. Feeling the need to get some fresh air, he crawled up the ceiling and opened the skylight, just in time to watch the last vestiges of daylight slip below the horizon.

No sooner had he stepped onto the roof when he felt a mild buzzing inside his head. His first thought was that Brock had somehow tailed him to the Kitchen. But when he heard a thud made by the impact of shoes on concrete, he breathed a sigh of relief.

"Fencing stolen goods?" a familiar voice called out of the dark.

"Yeah, right," Peter retorted. "Like I can get a dime for anything in this apartment."

"Welcome to Hell's Kitchen, Peter." Matt Murdock emerged from the shadows, wearing tan trousers, an open-collared, mustard-colored shirt, and a navy blue sports jacket. In one hand he held his cane, and in the other, a bunch of freshly-cut flowers and a _Macy's_ bag. It contained a fairly large box covered with silver gift-wrap. "A housewarmer, compliments of the law firm of Nelson and Murdock."

"Thanks very much, Matt. Sorry you missed Mary Jane. She left a while ago."

"I expect I'll be running into her at some point."

"Um . . . if I can ask, what is this?"

"An electric wok set."

"Actually, I was hoping for the flowers."

"They're for a rather feisty assistant district attorney with whom I'll be having dinner later tonight."

"Cool."

Suddenly, the lights from a nearby billboard kicked on, illuminating the red, white, and black logo of the _Daily Bugle_.

The sudden spiking of Peter's heartbeat had startled Matt for an instant.

"Argghhh," Peter groaned. "My past still haunts me."

"I take it that you are referring to Mr. Brock?" Matt asked as he recovered.

Peter was no longer surprised at how easily the more experienced crime fighter could pick up what was on his mind. "Mr. Jameson wants Spider-Man stuffed and mounted for taking Mary Jane away from his son," he explained, staring at the billboard. "The other day, he offered me and Eddie Brock bonuses to get pictures of us 'making out on a rooftop'." The words made him choke, as if he were being forced to swallow a wad of stale spinach.

"You already told me that, Peter."

"I did?"

"Yes, you did. But you never said how much."

"A grand."

"That doesn't sound like a lot."

"It is for Jameson. The guy's so tight he hasn't bought himself a decent-fitting suit in years."

Matt chuckled.

"I have to admit, Eddie's good at what he does," Peter continued with a sigh. "He never lets go of a story once he gets his teeth into it"

Matt understood that a dedicated journalist could not be held off indefinitely. He had spent years trying to avoid Ben Urich, to no avail. Ultimately, it was Urich's integrity that preserved his secret. Brock, on the other hand, was a tabloid reporter, a sensation-monger with few scruples who wouldn't hesitate to expose Spider-Man if he thought there would be a payoff.

"I think you have to plan your strategy around the assumption that Mr. Brock will eventually learn of your relationship with Mary Jane. It's very difficult to keep a secret like that indefinitely, even under the best of circumstances. Having said that, however, I believe there are steps you can take to preserve your anonymity for as long as possible."

"Such as?"

"Well, for one thing, try and be discreet about being seen with Mary Jane in public, at least for a couple of months, or until this thing with Mr. Jameson blows over. The other thing is, I hope you don't plan on taking any more pictures of yourself."

"I fired my photographer the other day."

"A wise decision on your part, Peter. Do you have a cell phone?"

"Nope."

"Then get one. They're much harder to tap than land lines. Keep your address unlisted. And put everything in Mary Jane's name, your lease, your phone bill, everything.

"I got a little problem there, Matt. M.J. and I already signed the lease."

"Then get a new lease made up. It's pretty routine. If you run into problems with that, let me know."

"Okay. I'll get on those things right away."

The war-weary attorney stepped to the edge of the roof. Peter fell in next to him, and together, the two of them stood watch over the neighborhood that was now home to both of New York's costumed guardians.

Even wearing their street clothes, they could have easily been mistaken for gargoyles in the shadows of dusk.

Across the street lay the ruins of what had once been a notorious biker joint. Amidst huge chunks of rubble were scattered charred remains of a billiard table, pieces of ceiling fans, and a red neon sign that spelled _JOSIE'S_. A sign on a construction scaffold near the concrete carcass read: "Coming Soon — Wegmans."

An uneasy silence had descended between them. Peter had read Ben Urich's article about the conflagration at Josie's Bar and the grisly end of his apartment's former occupant. The article strongly implied that Daredevil was responsible for Jose Quesada's death, either by act or more likely, by omission.

But Peter knew that he was in no position to pass judgment; he too carried a dark secret. He had not lifted a finger to prevent his uncle's murderer from falling out of that abandoned warehouse window.

Peter finally broke the awkward silence. "I . . . I just want to say thanks for helping us find this place. It means an awful lot to Mary Jane and me."

"My pleasure." Matt turned toward Peter, but looked past him, gazing into the eternal twilight in which he would always dwell. The reflection of the surrounding lights on his glasses made his youthful colleague think of teardrops.

"How versed are you in Greek mythology, Peter?"

"I know some."

"Have you ever heard of the Hydra?"

Peter pondered the question for a moment. "Some kind of jellyfish, right?"

"Yes, but no. The Hydra was a creature with many heads. What made it so formidable was that if one head was cut off, two more would grow back in its place."

A look of confusion came over Peter's face. "I'm sorry, Matt, but you just lost me."

"It took me twenty-two years to deliver justice to my father's killer. From the time I was twelve years old, it was all I ever thought about. But I never anticipated Wilson Fisk having so many potential successors."

"What are you saying, Matt, that nailing Fisk was a mistake?"

"No, Peter. I'm saying that justice, like everything else in this world, has its price."

Peter began to understand where Matt was coming from. The Kingpin's rule had brought a certain degree of order to the underworld. With Fisk's conviction, the syndicates that he had built over the years broke apart, spawning the massive crime wave that had been overwhelming the city and keeping Spider-Man and Daredevil working overtime.

"You can't blame yourself for that," Peter pointed out. "After all the things he did? If it were me, I'd have done the same thing."

"I don't blame myself, Peter," Matt replied a little sharply. "I have no regrets about the Kingpin. Justice has been done, and Dad is resting now. I just don't want you to have any illusions that things are going to get any easier without Fisk running the show."

"I think I know the score, Matt. I've been in the trenches for a couple of years now."

"Yes, you have. But in the long run, it doesn't really matter. Evil will survive, regardless of how many small-time thieves you sweep off the streets."

"Just what the hell is that supposed to mean?" Peter felt offended that Matt seemed to be belittling his efforts. "I'm out there every day, breaking my ass, trying to make the city a little bit safer for Joe and Joanne Sixpack. I don't need some Zen master from Hell's Kitchen telling me it's all for naught."

"I'm sorry you misunderstood me, Peter. What you've done is extraordinary. But it's not enough. The rules of the game are changing, and we have to change if we're going to be effective. We have to anticipate, not just react.

"Didn't we do that against the terrorists?"

"We were lucky against the terrorists," Matt reminded him. "We stumbled onto their plot only because of a string of fortuitous coincidences. If just one link in that chain had been broken — if Aziz didn't call you as a witness, if those men hadn't tried to kill him, if I didn't pick up those police dispatches — we might not be standing here today."

"So, what are we supposed to do?"

"We leverage our abilities in ways that will give us the upper hand, both tactically and strategically."

Peter caught Matt's drift. "Are you suggesting that we work together?"

"You're quite perceptive, as usual."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Peter replied, his heart swelling with pride. "We do make a pretty good team, don't we?"

"Yes, we do."

"I'm curious, Matt. Whatever happened to the Hydra?"

"The king of Mycenae had dispatched Heracles to slay the Hydra. Heracles enlisted the help of his nephew, Iolaus. Together, they lured the beast out of its lair and the battle was joined. Heracles lopped off the heads while Iolaus cauterized the wounds with a torch, so that they couldn't grow back. They eventually won." He offered Peter his hand.

Peter took it.

A few blocks away, the bells from the Church of the Holy Innocents chimed eight times. Peter saw Matt's face twist into a grimace for the briefest instant.

"I have to meet my date," Matt said. "Remember, Peter, Monday morning, seven o'clock sharp, at my law office."

"I'll be there," Peter said.

Just before Matt stepped off the roof, Matt delivered one final piece of advice for new partner. "Never forget, Peter, that one man can always make a difference."

"Two," Peter corrected. But Matt had already gone.

"Hey," Peter called after him. "Watch out for your flowers." He peered over the ledge, but Hell's Kitchen's original sentinel was nowhere to be seen.

_Maybe he was never here_, Peter thought for a moment. Then he felt the tug of the _Macy's_ bag in his hand. He went back inside the loft and put the bag on the veranda.

As he lay on his bed, once more gazing at Mary Jane's pictures, the faint wail of a distant siren gently reminded him of his responsibility. He got up and reached for his costume, his fiancée's admonition about being careful uppermost in his mind.

"Guardian demons," Spider-Man whispered as he swung by the Emma Rose billboard at the intersection of 58th Street and Tenth Avenue.


	26. Gone Fishing

**TWIN DEMONS**** by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**This chapter was inspired by the scene in **_**It's A Wonderful Life**_**, in which George Bailey, played by James Stewart, dives into a freezing river on a snowy Christmas Eve to "save," Angel Second-Class Clarence Oddbody, played by Henry Travers.**

**The actual words to Peter's satirical lyric are, "**_**Like a virgin, touched for the very first time." **_

**The Jeffrey's Hook Lighthouse sits in front of the eastern tower of the George Washington Bridge. The lighthouse was the subject of a famous children's book, **_**The Little Red Lighthouse And The Great Grey Bridge**_**, written by Hildegard H. Swift in 1942. Rendered obsolete when the bridge opened in 1931, it was rescued from demolition by a children's campaign and turned into a national landmark. Its beacon was reactivated in 2002.**

**Information pertaining to the George Washington Bridge itself can be found at the website of the Port Authority of New York and New Jersey.**

**Trigonometry is the branch of mathematics concerned with the relations of the sides and angles of triangles and with the relevant functions of any angles.**

**Uncle Ben's reference to Dr. Freud, refers, of course, to Sigmund Freud, one of the pivotal figures of modern psychology.**

**Spider-Man's line about fate closing a door and leaving a window open was inspired by a line from the Mother Superior in **_**The Sound of Music**_

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:**_** Spider-Man**_**, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Spider-Man 2**_**, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Daredevil - Director's Cut**_**, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and **_**Hulk**_**, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XXVI**

**GONE FISHING**

Except for cabbies and garbage trucks running red lights, New Yorkers shouting at each other as only New Yorkers could, jets flying in and out of Kennedy and LaGuardia Airports, and the occasional "whooooooo-hoooooooo," from a red-and-blue comet streaking overhead, the night was quiet. A few of the brighter stars remained visible through the blaze of the city's lights.

With his hyper-intuitive faculty detecting nothing out of the ordinary, Spider-Man hurtled north along Broadway. Although the world would never know it, he was setting records that no Olympic athlete would ever attain in events in which no Olympian could ever hope to compete. He swung faster, leaped further and higher, and performed even more spectacular feats of aerial acrobatics than he ever had before, all because of the stunningly beautiful redhead who had burst into his world with joy, laughter, and a firm resolve to help him face down his demons.

And, to a somewhat lesser extent, because of the older brother figure he never had while he was growing up, the mentor who would teach him a few things about life on the night shift that he could never have learned working alone.

Both of his new partners would help him bring some semblance of balance to his life.

By the time he reached 165th Street, Manhattan had narrowed to the point where it was only ten blocks wide. He did not usually venture up this far, since there were few buildings tall enough to afford him the leeway he needed to navigate. But his buoyant spirits had put him in an adventurous mood that evening, so much so that he actually contemplated leaping from one side of the island to the other in a single bound.

_Forget it, Peter,_ Ben Parker admonished. _You're better off leaving some things to that other guy who wears red and blue_.

Veering left at the corner of 165th and Broadway, Spider-Man eventually found his way to the well-lit bicycle path that bisected Fort Washington Park, a, richly wooded, but hard-to-access sliver of greenery nestled between the Henry Hudson Parkway and the Hudson River. It was one of the many lesser-known parks scattered throughout Manhattan, overlooked by tourists but loved by locals.

Confident that he would not be observed, Spider-Man leaped along the deserted bike path in forty- to fifty-foot clips. "Like Bruce Banner", he sang to the tune of Madonna's classic hit, allowing himself the momentary indulgence of breaking his self-imposed taboo on jesting about Dr. Banner's alter-ego. "Zapped for the very first time . . ."

He stopped to recharge his batteries near the base of the George Washington Bridge. Directly in front of the bridge's massive, arched tower stood the Jeffrey's Hook Lighthouse. Once slated for demolition, this small lighthouse was now on the National Registry of Historic Places, thanks to a little book that his Aunt May had read to him when he was five.

Or tried to. As a small child, he had been deathly afraid of lighthouses. No one knew why. He dimly remembered carrying on like a banshee when Aunt May had opened the book in front of him. It was not until he had seen the Chatham Light House up in Cape Cod a few years back that he had finally gotten over it. And so, despite having lived all these years in the Big Apple, this would be the first time he had ever visited this world-famous landmark.

Spider-Man sat down at one of the picnic tables near the lighthouse, taking in the scenery, inhaling the fresh, cool night air. The Hudson River was as smooth as polished glass, save for tiny ripples made by a light breeze and an invisible but powerful current. The lights from the bridge's suspension cables shined down upon the black water like gigantic diamond necklaces, etching an exquisite tapestry of reflected luminescence that made him think of the white icing that graced his aunt May's gingerbread cookies.

He decided to relax atop the lighthouse itself for a few minutes before returning to his patrol around Midtown Manhattan.

_I don't think so, son . . ._ Uncle Ben said from inside his head, interrupting his peaceful reverie.

All at once, he heard the sound of screeching brakes coming from the bridge, followed by the howls of a thousand horns and hundreds of unintelligible, shouts, many sounding angry, some sounding alarmed.

In a matter of seconds, Spider-Man had scaled the tower and was swinging toward the source of the commotion near the center of the bridge. Something had caused the traffic on the bridge's upper level to grind to a halt. But from the underside of the huge span, he could neither hear nor see what was happening, and so had no idea what was going on . . .

Until his spider-sense went off the dial.

A man's silhouette appeared under the lights illuminating the south side of the bridge. He had apparently climbed over the protective railing and was sliding down a diagonal cross-beam, sidesaddle, his legs facing outward, his intent unmistakable.

Spider-Man sighed, rolling his eyes. It looked like he was going to have his work cut out for him. The man was sitting on a piece of steel more than two hundred feet above the Hudson River. From that height, the impact would be like smashing into a brick wall at ninety miles an hour.

_Just stay there . . . don't move, _Spider-Man urged silently as he moved in closer to his target. _And whatever you do, don't look down._ Hanging upside down from the bottom of the bridge, he aimed his spinnerets at the would-be suicide, hoping to bind him to the beam with a extra-thick wad of webbing. Once he got to the guy, he would cut him loose and get him to safety.

The suicide, however, was one step ahead of him.

Time slowed down around Spider-Man as the man wordlessly pushed himself off the beam and plunged head over heels toward the icy blackness below.

Spider-Man fired his webline, but it was too dark for him to draw a clear bead. His shot missed its target by less than a few inches. He would not have time to fire another. The only way he could prevent the jumper from sustaining catastrophic injury was to catch him.

And the only way he could do that was to angle himself toward the jumper's trajectory and intercept him at precisely the right point, a real-life trigonometry problem if there ever was one.

Spider-Man could not have carried out his plan any more precisely. He swooped down and grabbed hold of the jumper a few dozen feet above the river, firing another webline in time to break his fall.

But not in time to stop their plunge into thirty-seven-degree water. The cold was so intense that it drove the breath right out of Spider-Man's lungs, triggering muscle spasms that locked his jaws together and compacted his guts. If ever asked to describe the sensation, he would say that it felt like being smothered under an avalanche and punched in the stomach at the same time.

Holding on to the jumper by the belt, Spider-Man broke the surface, kicking furiously to remain afloat and conscious. The current was already beginning to drag them down-river, stretching the thin webline that kept them anchored to the bridge. He gasped for air as he adjusted his grip on the jumper, holding him around the waist and hoisting him up the webline, one-handed, until they were clear of the water. The abrupt release from the grip of the current caused the line to sway like a pendulum between the sides of the bridge.

As he held the webline tightly with his left hand while trying to hold a shivering, two-hundred-pound man with his right, his water-logged costume prolonging the agonizing exposure, Spider-Man was only beginning to grasp the precariousness of his situation. Without the use of both hands, he was practically immobile. The swinging webline was already starting to fray and would not hold for much longer.

Overhead, traffic remained at a complete standstill as hundreds of people got out of their cars to peer over the railing. They were all shouting and pointing downward, presumably looking for the jumper. Spider-Man tried to yell for help, but his vocal chords were barely functioning. Worse, from where he and the jumper were dangling, none of the spectators could see them.

To Spider-Man, it looked like they were on their own.

Forcing himself not to dwell on the paralyzing cold, he concentrated on finding a way to get himself and his new-found companion back to shore. _Maybe we could swim for it_, he thought. But one fleeting glance toward the little red lighthouse made it abundantly clear that they would never make it. The jumper would probably succumb to hypothermia long before they reached the river bank.

So would he.

The jumper, meanwhile, had recovered from his initial shock and was starting to twist around. At first, Spider-Man thought he was simply trying to find a way to get warm. But when the jumper attempted to pry Spider-Man's arm loose, the webslinger realized, to his utter dismay, that the man was hell-bent on finishing the job he had started.

"W-W-What are you d-d-doing?" Spider-Man gasped through chattering teeth.

The jumper continued to struggle against his rescuer, making Spider-Man feel as though he were engaged in a one-armed wrestling match with a huge, slippery swordfish that had just been hauled aboard a fishing boat.

"Stop fighting me, d-d-dammit!"

"L-L-Let go of m-m-me you fucking fr-fr-freak!" the jumper hissed as their lateral motion came to a stop, leaving them suspended above the water by less than a foot.

_How do I get out of this one?_ Spider-Man wondered as the burning sensation in his extremities warned him to keep his fingers and toes moving. No sooner had he asked the question when his mind wandered back to the playground in Forest Hills that he used to frequent as a small boy. He recalled the 1940s-era swing set that he had played on, and how Aunt May and Uncle Ben had encouraged him to generate his own lift instead of pushing him the way the other kids' parents did.

Sometimes, they would give him a demonstration.

"_Come on, Peter," _Uncle Ben would say, trying to squeeze his backside onto a swing made for people half his size._ "Pump your legs, back and forth . . . back and . . ._"

"That's it!" Spider-Man shouted in a raspy voice as he figured out his uncle's subliminal message.

Using the tiny momentum generated by the jumper's movements, Spider-Man put his legs together, extended them out, and folded them back at the knees. The first few times, they hardly budged, but by the fifth cycle, they had started to move parallel to the bridge. He repeated the motion, settling into a rhythm. With every cycle, their arc grew longer, bringing them closer and closer to the bottom of the span.

"No, no, no!" the jumper screamed as soon as he got wind of what Spider-Man was doing.

_What's with this guy?_ Spider-Man wondered as he tightened his grip under the man's rib cage, trying to keep him immobile without crushing him. They were on their final downward swing, barely clearing the water. On the next upswing, he would release the line and use his momentum to carry them to the nearest truss. "Come on," he whispered as the shadowy steel beams rushed to meet them. "A little further . . . three . . . two . . . one . . ."

His spider-sense went code red.

_Now what?_

The webline snapped.

Spider-Man and the jumper were once again in free-fall. And somehow, the jumper had slipped out of his grasp.

Spider-Man fired a webline at the truss above him while simultaneously firing another line at the jumper, aiming away from the man's legs to avoid a fatal whiplash. The shot caught the man squarely on the back of his shirt, leaving him to thrash around like a marionette on steroids while dangling over one hundred feet in the air.

Spider-Man quickly glanced up, and then down. He was really stuck this time, hanging by an organic bungee-cord fifty-five feet beneath the bridge, separated from the jumper by another thirty-two feet. From his new vantage point, the patterns made by the bridge lights on the water looked like huge fangs surrounding an enormous, yawning dark maw that was eagerly looking forward to swallowing them both whole.

Swinging was out of the question this time. The momentum would catapult the jumper right into the bottom of the bridge like a slingshot, mangling him in the process.

On top of that, Spider-Man was running out of time. He gasped in disbelief as he watched the jumper undo his top two shirt buttons.

"Why do I bother?" Spider-Man lamented, exasperated at the thought of freezing to death beneath the world's busiest bridge, completely invisible to anyone who might be in a position to help, trying to save someone who did not want to be saved.

_Because you have to . . . How many times have we been through this?_

"That's easy for you to say, sitting there in your warm car," Spider-Man said to his uncle. "I could really use a suggestion right now."

_Go for exposed skin, any part of his body that you can get a handle on_.

"But I have to let go before I can fire another line. What if I lose him?"

_Just trust yourself and go with it. _

Holding his breath, Spider-Man executed the tricky maneuver, firing another webline before the jumper could go into another free-fall. The thick glob struck the jumper squarely on the neck and upper back. Spider-Man's eyes gleamed with satisfaction beneath his twin reflectors as he watched the jumper struggle in vain to tear the webbing loose. Try as he might, there was no way the almost-successful suicide would be able to break free this time.

With the jumper secured ,Spider-Man started to coil the webline to the bridge around his wrist and elbow like he was winding up an electrical cord. He hardly felt the jumper's weight, which made the task somewhat easier. But his upward progress was agonizingly slow. If he moved too fast, the line would snap, as he learned on his last try.

The webline held, but just barely, giving way the moment his hand made contact with the truss. Despite the numbness in his fingers and toes, his electrical adhesive force was still functioning at optimal levels, enabling him to keep a solid grip on the surfaces above him. He could hear sirens off in the distance, but could not tell whether they were coming from ambulances or squad cars.

_This has to be the most bizarre rescue I've ever attempted_, Spider-Man thought as he began his arduous, upside-down walk back toward the tower on the New York side. He carefully negotiated the girders above while using both hands to hold the jumper by a twenty-foot cable of webbing underneath. Massive amounts of adrenaline generated both heat and sweat, keeping his body temperature within the normal range.

"That's it, keep moving around," Spider-Man urged the squirming jumper. The man's resistance was a good sign. It meant that he was not injured, at least not seriously, and that he was able to keep his circulation going and ward off hypothermia. Despite knowing the jumper's intentions, he had to give the man credit for putting up a hell of a good fight.

Five minutes later, his burden safely under his arm, Peter climbed down the tower and leaped over the barbed-wired fence that surrounded it. He carried the jumper to the picnic table where he had sat down earlier.

By now, the breezes from the river had picked up, and the man was shivering intensely. His knees were up against his chest and his arms were wrapped around his legs in a feeble effort to keep warm. Spider-Man immediately started rubbing the man's back, arms, and legs in an effort to generate some heat-bearing friction.

He could hear approaching sirens, and there were quite a few of them. Lights on the river were moving rapidly toward the bridge from the south. Presumably, the Harbor Police had been alerted and had dispatched search and rescue squads. On the bridge itself, chaos and cacophony still reigned.

"W-W-Why d-d-didn't you just l-l-let me go?" the jumper demanded, close to tears.

"Not an option." Spider-Man replied tersely, resisting the urge to joke about being the man's guardian angel. "It's against my religion."

"This isn't any of your b-b-business!"

"It is my business when people try to kill themselves."

The little red lighthouse's beacon swung around, briefly enabling Spider-Man to get a reasonably clear view of the jumper's face. He let out a gasp as his eyes widened beneath his mask.

The jumper could not have been more than eighteen. He had a pudgy, angelic-looking face.

"What's your name, kid?" Spider-Man asked he continued his efforts to warm the young man up, wondering what could have driven him to attempt suicide.

"I d-don't have to say anything to you." The bitterness in the jumper's voice spoke volumes about his emotional state. "And get your motherfucking hands off me!"

"Okay, okay . . . if that's the way you want to play it." Spider-Man complied with the jumper's "request."

Around them, the sirens were getting closer, and louder. A whistle had sounded off from somewhere on the river. Some of the harbor patrol boats had changed direction and were now approaching the lighthouse. "We don't have much time," Spider-Man warned. In a few minutes, the police will be swarming all over this place."

"I don't give a shit," the jumper snapped.

"You should," Spider-Man said, pointing toward the bridge. "You see what's going on up there? Traffic's going to be tied up for hours, because of you. If I turn you over to the cops, which I'm obligated to do, by the way, you'll probably be charged with reckless endangerment. And that'll mean jail time."

"Go ahead. Be the big shot hero and turn me in." The jumper remained defiant, keeping his gaze fixed on the ground in front of him.

But there was something false about the youth's bravado that Spider-Man had picked up almost immediately.

"Somehow, I don't think incarceration would do you a lot of good," Spider-Man said softly. "And I'd really like to help you if I can."

"What makes you think I need help?"

"Most people don't deal with their problems by jumping off a bridge, my friend." Spider-Man pointed out. "Presbyterian Hospital is only a few blocks from here. We still have time to get you to the emergency room before. . ."

"I don't want your help, and I don't need no doctor. Just. . . ju . . ."

The jumper's angry facade suddenly broke apart, like a mirror that had just been shattered. Unable to contain his anger, grief, and frustration any longer, he started sobbing between shivers.

Spider-Man knelt down and patted the jumper's shoulder. "It's okay, kid. Sometimes, you've just gotta let it all hang out." He might not have been a psychologist, but he was no stranger to the angst of being young.

"Scott," the kid whispered through his crying fit.

"What?"

"The name's S-S-Scott."

"Do you want to go somewhere we can warm up?"

Scott said nothing. He simply nodded.

"I'll take that as a yes." Spider-Man gently helped Scott to his feet. "Hop on my back."

As soon as Scott was aboard, he quickly fashioned a web-net using one of the trees along the river bank as an anchor. As he had with Mary Jane, he whirled around, wrapping them tightly in the net.

"Are you okay, Scott? Comfortable?"

"I g-guess so."

Together, they left the Jeffrey's Hook Lighthouse behind, just as the police were closing in on the bridge tower. Fortunately, no one had seen them.

As Spider-Man bounded along the bike path, retracing his footsteps, he felt Scott's arms tighten around his rib cage. Apparently, his passenger was a little frightened. "Just a bit further, Scott," he called out. "Hang on."

A few minutes later, they were on the roof of one of the buildings in the Presbyterian Hospital complex, standing in front of a large vent, on the receiving end of a much-needed stream of hot air.

"Feeling better, Scott?" Spider-Man had to shout to make himself heard above the roar of the vent's exhaust fan.

"Uh huh," Scott replied just as loudly, obviously welcoming his respite from the cold.

After a few more minutes, Spider-Man signaled Scott to step away from the vent so they could have a proper conversation. Scott followed him over to the ledge.

A pair of squad cars barreled down Riverside Drive, followed by an ambulance. The sirens from all three vehicles shattered the tranquility of this otherwise quiet neighborhood.

"They're looking for me, aren't they?"

"I'm afraid so, Scott."

"What's gonna happen?"

"It's hard to say. They'll want to question you. Depending on how seriously you mucked things up on the bridge, they could fine you, put you in jail, or both."

"I'm really sorry, Spider-Man. I didn't mean to cause all this trouble."

"I know you didn't. You don't seem like the trouble-making type. But the cops probably won't see it that way."

"It's just . . ." He started to break down again. "My life is so screwed up right now . . ."

Spider-Man knew that refrain by heart. "It sometimes helps to talk about it."

"You wouldn't understand," Scott sobbed. "You couldn't possibly understand. You're probably some rich playboy who can get any girl he wants and doesn't have to work for a living."

Under any other circumstances, Spider-Man would have burst out laughing. But, in deference to Scott's emotional fragility, he kept his tone low-key and sympathetic.

"You've been reading too many comic books, Scott. I'm not rich. I struggle and suffer and try to scratch out a living, just like everybody else. Believe me, there were lots of times when I thought about jumping off the Empire State Building."

_Oh come on, Peter. Stop exaggerating._

_Quit riding me, will you, Uncle Ben? I'm trying to help this guy._

Scott needed no further prompting to share with Spider-Man the misfortune that had driven him to jump off the George Washington Bridge. "My girlfriend, Laura . . . We were so . . . we were everything to each other . . . Just last week, she told me that I was the only one for her. We had planned to get married right after graduation."

Spider-Man had a hint of where Scott was leading him. "You two broke up?"

Scott nodded. "I took her out to dinner tonight, so we could talk about the wedding. She gets all shaky and nervous, and she says she can't. I ask her why. She tells me that she was seeing somebody else for the last six months. She can't even look me in the eye." He started crying again. "Laura was my whole world. Without her, my life ain't nothing. But all this time, she was leading me around, pretending that she loved me when she was in love with another guy."

For an instant, Spider-Man thought he was back in the bar with John Jameson. What could he say to something like that?

He decided to take a cognitive approach. Carefully maintaining a clinical neutrality, he asked, "What do you think would you have accomplished if I wasn't there to stop you?"

Scott was unequivocal with his answer. "She would've realized what she lost."

"In other words, you wanted to get back at her?"

Scott hesitated.

"You probably would've laid a huge guilt trip on her. But what about your parents? Have you thought about how they would feel?"

_Who thinks about anything when they're young and desperately in love, Dr. Freud?_ Uncle Ben asked rhetorically. _Keep him talking_.

"Do you have any brothers or sisters?" Spider-Man asked, becoming comfortable in his new role as a therapist.

"One of each."

"How about friends?"

"A few."

"So, there are people in this world that care a lot about you. Did you really want to hurt them?"

"Of course not," Scott responded with a touch of indignation.

"Well, that's what you would have done. Do you have any idea of the pain you would've put them through?"

"Well, I . . .Yeah, I guess so. But I . . . I was just so messed up. My head wasn't screwed on straight."

Even though he thought Scott's move was incredibly stupid, he could still see reflections of his own soul in the young man's forlorn brown eyes. He could not help but like the kid. "Try and get a little perspective, Scott. You're young, you look reasonably healthy. In the big scheme of things, your girlfriend leaving you is one of life's curve balls, and it probably won't be the last." Noticing that Scott was starting to shiver again, he resumed his heat massage. "Don't worry. I'm not getting fresh."

"It's okay. I k-kinda need it."

"This may seem hard for you to believe," Spider-Man continued, "but your ex might have done you a huge favor."

Scott shrugged. "It sure doesn't feel like it."

"Have you heard the saying, 'when fate closes a door, she leaves a window open'?"

"I don't get it."

"All I'm saying is that there might be someone out there, waiting for you. But you're never going to find her if you keep throwing yourself at the feet of a girl who doesn't care for you anymore."

_A little blunt there, aren't we, Peter?_

_Perhaps_, Spider-Man thought. But when he saw a glimmer of hope appear in Scott's eyes, he knew that he had made the point that needed to be made.

"I . . . you're probably right," Scott agreed, somewhat reluctantly. "I just need some time . . ."

"That's the spirit, Scott," Spider-Man encouraged. "Now, what do you say, we go to the emergency room?"

Scott looked at him questioningly. "Do I really have to? I think I'm okay now."

Spider-Man held firm. "You had prolonged exposure to very cold water. They'll need to look you over to make sure there aren't any residual effects or injuries. Once they do that, they'll refer you to counseling if you need it." He was very careful not to use the word psychiatrist "Just be truthful with them about what happened."

"But what if the cops find out?"

"They will, eventually. But let's not worry about that, right now. When we get inside, I'll give you the name of a lawyer who'll represent you. Are you cool with that?"

"I think so." Scott gestured for Spider-Man to cease his massage. He rubbed his hands together and ran in place for a few steps. "Spider-Man . . . ?"

"Yes, Scott?"

"Any chance we keep this out of the news? I don't want to cause my family and friends any embarrassment."

"I know what you mean. I need to start avoiding the media myself, if you can believe it."

That elicited a chuckle from Scott.

"If a reporter tries to contact you, just say no comment."

"Okay."

"And don't ever let me catch you on that bridge again, or any bridge, unless you intend to cross it," he warned as he gave Scott another friendly shoulder-pat. "Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, I'm going to strap you in for the ride downstairs. Stand up against me, with your chest on my back . . . Are you ready?"

"Yeah."

"Here we go, then."

Spider-Man escorted Scott into the emergency room and explained to the on-duty nurse what had happened. The nurse pulled a blanket out from a closet and draped it over Scott's shoulders.

While Scott waited for the next available physician, Spider-Man scribbled something on a piece of hospital stationary.

"Here," he said as he folded the paper and handed it to the young man. "I hope you won't need this, but take it, just in case."

Then, in what was for the nurse a rather poignant moment, rescuer and rescuee embraced.

"Good luck, Scott. I think you'll be fine."

"Thanks, Spider-Man."

As the ER's sliding door closed behind Spider-Man, Scott opened the note the webslinger had left him. It said, _Matthew Murdock - nelsonandmurdock. com. __Referral by your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man. _

Spider-Man was soon on his way home. Unfortunately, he had not been in front of the exhaust vent long enough for his costume to get completely dry. The insides of his gloves and boots were still soaking wet.

_Nice job there, Michelangelo. You've done Dr. Phil proud. _

"You think it helped?" Peter asked his uncle.

_I suppose so. But I'll be more interested to see how you explain your little fishing trip to Mary Jane_.


	27. Knight of the Bath

**TWIN DEMONS**** by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**Knights of the Bath are members of a very old and very prestigious Order of the British Crown. The term takes on a slightly different meaning in this chapter.**

**The Coney Island Polar Bear Club is the oldest winter bathing organization in the United States. Its members swim in the Atlantic Ocean at Coney Island every Sunday from October through April. **

**During the course of his conversation with Mary Jane, Peter refers to the scene in the film, **_**Titanic,**_** in which Jack Dawson, played by Leonardo DiCaprio, and Cal Hockley, played by Billy Zane, both urge Rose DeWitt Bukater, played by Kate Winslet, to get into the lifeboat.**

**Another part of that conversation is a composite, drawn from**: **J. Michael Straczynski & Fiona Avery, **_**The Best of Spider-Man, Volume Three**_ _**- Parts and Pieces**_**, (New York: Marvel Characters, Inc., 2003); and Peter David, **_**Spider-Man - The Official Novelization of the Film**_**, (New York: Random House, Inc., 2002), pp. 279-280.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:**_** Spider-Man**_**, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Spider-Man 2**_**, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Daredevil - Director's Cut**_**, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and **_**Hulk**_**, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XXVII**

**KNIGHT OF THE BATH **

Quickly, but quietly, Spider-Man slipped through the skylight, back into the safety and comfort of his new home. The warmth from the loft wrapped itself around him like a thick, soft, nurturing blanket. It was a welcome relief after his bone-chilling dip in the Hudson River. Just before he closed the skylight, he looked up at the few stars he could see, silently expressing gratitude at getting out of that pickle beneath the George Washington Bridge, and hope that Scott was getting the help he needed.

Peter stepped onto the veranda, removing his mask and gloves. The wok set was exactly where he had left it, which told him that Mary Jane had not yet seen it, or had been waiting for him to return before opening it. The rest of apartment was dark, except for faint squares of reflected light from outside streaming onto the cream-colored carpeting from the still-uncovered windows.

As his eyes became acclimated to the darkness, he spotted what looked like Mary Jane's grey sweater on the living room floor, the one that she had been wearing when she left for her play. Landing silently after a leap over the balustrade, he bent down to get a closer look. The sweater was lying perfectly flat, it's sleeves drawn together to form an arrow that pointed toward the arched hallway.

As he stood up, Peter noticed the rest of M.J.'s clothes. They were not casually strewn about. Her shoes, panty hose, pink blouse, and jeans were laid out in a line that led straight into the master bedroom at the far end of the hall. The door was open just enough for him to see a faint, flickering light emanating from inside.

His heart pounded with anticipation when he realized what she had left for him — a trail to follow.

Peter opened the door and tip-toed reverently into the bedroom, expecting his lady love to be lying in the bed, waiting for him with the covers folded down, beckoning him to join her.

But the bed was empty. Mary Jane was nowhere to be seen.

A solitary candle rested on a folded piece of tin foil atop M.J.'s dresser, its flame causing the shadows in the room to dance.

"Mary Jane?" he called out.

There was no answer. Then his spider-sense started to tingle, ever so slightly. No sooner had he taken a step when he felt a crumpling sensation underneath his foot. On the floor was a piece of notebook paper with a drawing of cupid's arrow in red magic marker, flanked by tiny hearts.

Beneath the arrow was a big heart with a message inside. Peter had to kneel down to read it in the dim light.

_This way to the jackpot_.

The arrow was pointing to the dressing area between the bedroom and the master bathroom.

The trail of clothes resumed in the dressing area. Two more lit candles stood on the vanity, flanking the sink. Near one of the candles lay Mary Jane's bra. Her panties were hanging on the knob of the bathroom door. The door itself was slightly ajar, letting a tiny sliver of that same flickering light slip through. A broad grin broke out across Peter's face as he heard a splashing sound, followed by that wonderful, mellifluous giggle.

Peter pushed the door back, and beheld the most incredible sight he had ever laid eyes upon.

Lighted candles two inches in diameter and sixteen inches tall had been placed all over the second sink, on the commode, and in the shower stall. These candles, unlike the others, had a distinct strawberry aroma. The oversized jacuzzi-style tub was filled with a bubble bath. Suds were piled in cloud-shaped mounds that towered nearly three feet high. Next to the tub stood a bottle of sparkling grape juice and two empty wine goblets.

Mary Jane lay in the tub, covered with suds up to her neck. Her head was tilted back, her million-dollar smile aimed right at him. Peter could see the candle flames reflected in her luscious eyes.

"Where did you get all this stuff, M.J?" he asked, so awed by what he was seeing that he could barely speak above a whisper.

"Spencer's," she answered as she seductively raised a knee out of the water. "Why don't you read the sign?"

"What sign?"

"The one on the door, love."

Peter glanced toward his right. Sure enough, there was a small post-it note, right in front of his face.

"What does it say, Peter?"

"It says . . ." _Oh, boy _. . . "no clothes allowed beyond this point. Does this mean I have to . . .?"

"Uh huh," M.J. replied huskily, resting her leg on the curved side of the tub. Her hand brushed against her thigh and slipped back beneath the suds. A soft moan escaped her lips.

Peter let go of his mask and gloves, allowing them to drop onto the floor near the foot of the tub. He slowly stripped out of the rest of his costume until he stood before his fiancée with nothing on but a skimpy pair of navy blue briefs hanging so low as to leave the base of his phallus uncovered.

"I put these on especially for you, M.J."

Mary Jane whistled, her eyebrows arching up and down as she gazed upon her boyfriend's muscular, sinewy physique.

"How thoughtful," she said. "Now, how about giving me the honor of taking them off?"

Peter took a step closer to the tub, but remained just beyond her reach. As she extended her bubble-covered arm, he turned around so that she would not see how hard he was.

"Quit teasing me, Tiger."

"Just showing you my best side, honey."

"You've got a point there," she laughed, gazing lustfully at the tops of his buns. Just as she was reaching out to yank away his underwear, he leaped up to the eight-foot-high ceiling and positioned himself directly over the tub, his "best" side facing her.

"Get down here!" she demanded, her face twisting into a mock pout.

"Only if you give me a drum-roll."

As Mary Jane rapidly pounded the side of the tub, Peter slowly lowered himself toward her, butt-down, on an extremely thin webline. Running her tongue over her teeth, she grabbed his tiny briefs and practically tore them away.

Her expression turned quizzical as she felt the cold dampness between her fingers. "How come you're so wet?"

Peter smiled mischievously as he flicked his underwear off with his feet and sank into the bubble-mound. "Ohhhhh, Mary Jane," he sighed as the hot water engulfed him. "You have no idea how good this feels."

"I'll bet I do," M.J. said as she tenderly caressed his shoulder blade. She noticed one of his costume boots lying on its side, a tiny trickle of water spilling out of it. She leaned forward in the tub, righted the boot, and stuck her hand inside it.

"Come on, what happened to you? And why is your boot soaked?"

"Well . . . uh . . . M.J. . . . I was feeling so good about things that I . . . well I sort of got carried away and . . ."

"And?"

"I went for a little night-swim."

"Peter, you didn't!" It was not so much what he said that made her anxiety level rise.

It was the nonchalant way in which he had said it.

"Well, for your sake, I hope it was in a heated pool on top of some Park Avenue penthouse."

"Actually, it was under the George Washington Bridge."

Mary Jane's gorgeous green eyes all but popped out of their sockets. "Are you out of your mind?" she shouted. "Do you have any idea how cold that water is this time of year?"

Stunned by his fiancée's unexpectedly sharp reaction, Peter backtracked and attempted to ease the tension that had suddenly descended between them. "I was trying out for the Coney Island Polar Bear Club."

It was not one of his better judgments.

"That's not funny, Peter Parker. You could've drowned. Or froze to death. What the hell were you thinking?"

He realized that he had lost both the moment and the mood, and wasted no time trying to get them back. "Come on, Mary Jane. You know better than anyone that I'm no thrill-seeker. Some mixed up teenager threw himself off the bridge over a girl. I was there. I had to do something. If I . . ."

"That 's not the issue," Mary Jane interrupted. "I know you had to save that kid. Don't even think for a minute that I would ever want you to do otherwise. But it's your cavalier attitude that I have problems with."

"Huh?"

To Peter, was totally new, and totally out of left field. He had always believed that Spider-Man's trademarked brand of humor was a big turn-on for her. "I don't get it, M.J. That never bothered you before."

"Use your head, Peter. We weren't together before. Now we are." As she turned on her side to face him, a chunk of suds broke away from the shrinking bubble-cloud and landed on his nose. The sight reminded her of a circus clown getting a pie in the face.

She giggled softly, in spite of herself.

"You were always so worried about something happening to me," she pointed out, wiping the bubbles off his face. "Well now, I'm worrying about you, every day and night. But when you joke around about nearly getting killed, it's like you don't care about your own safety. And that really bothers me."

"That's not true, M.J. I do care, very much. But you've got to understand something. Spider-Man's just an act, like your character in the show. If I didn't have his sense of humor to get me through all the craziness I have to deal with day in and day out, I'd have lost it a long time ago."

Mary Jane smiled, her concerns already beginning to dissipate. "I know that, Tiger. But in case you've forgotten, I'm going to be your wife. You don't have to wear that character around me anymore. "

Peter shrugged his shoulders. "Force of habit, I guess."

Mary Jane reached up and lightly caressed the stubble on his cheeks and chin. "If you haven't figured it out yet, Pete, I'm not in love with Spider-Man."

"But you once told me you were," Peter protested. "In Aunt May's hospital room, after the Goblin attacked her, remember?"

"That was only a stupid schoolgirl crush," she went on. "The truth is, I'm in love with the guy who brings him to life, the nerdy kid from Queens with those deep blue eyes and that goofy, crooked smile. That's the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. And I want us to be together for a long, long time."

"M.J., that's exactly what I want, believe me. I want a marriage that lasts a hundred years. I want kids, and I want to be able to do all those things that couples and families do." He reached around Mary Jane's shoulders and nudged her in close. "But I'm just not sure whether a normal life's in the cards for us."

"And what's normal?" Mary Jane asked rhetorically. "Getting on a bus at the same time every day, punching a ticket at some dead end job, having chicken for dinner, and getting laid every night?"

"I kind of like the last part, actually."

Mary Jane gave him a lighthearted splash. "The point is, love, that you weren't meant to have a so-called normal life. You were meant for something more. It was pretty apparent by the time Aunt May and I got finished reading your letters." She hesitated for a moment, an expression of guilt briefly appearing on her face. "I hope you're not mad at us about that, by the way."

Peter shook his head. "How could I be? You needed answers, and you found them. I just hope you understand everything."

"I do." She kissed him lightly on the lips. "I know who you are now. And I know why you have to do the things you do. You can't deny that part of your existence, any more than I can deny my feelings for you. I want you to be the man you were meant to be. And I'm going to do everything I can to help you get there. That's my responsibility."

Now it was Peter's turn to feel the prick of tears behind his eyes. Mary Jane's unconditional acceptance of his double-life had finally brought him out of the hell into which he had fallen on the night of his uncle's murder. With her by his side, he could meet every challenge and overcome every obstacle that life threw in his way, no longer dogged by the dreadful fear that his loved ones would suffer the consequences of his mistakes. She had chased his demons away, and now she would hold his universe together.

And he would do the same for her.

But Mary Jane had not yet finished. "I'll need a few things from you in return."

"Such as?"

She looked him straight in the eye and did not mince words. "From now on, play it straight with me. Don't tell me everything's all right when it isn't. And don't stuff everything inside. If you've got something you need to get off your chest, then talk to me about it."

"Is that all?"

Mary Jane thought about it for a moment. "Don't try to impress me with that aw-shucks bravado anymore. And don't ever, _ever_ push me away. Do we have a deal?"

Peter hesitated. "Not yet. I still need one concession from you."

"Go on," she encouraged.

"Plan X."

"And just what is Plan X?"

"Did you ever see _Titanic_?"

"Of course. But what's that got to do with us?"

"Everything. Remember that part when the ship was sinking and the guy from steerage told the girl from first class to get in the boat?"

"Peter, what are you getting at?" In truth, she knew perfectly well what Plan X was going to be, but was hoping that she would be wrong.

She wasn't.

"M.J., I want you to promise me that you'll get in the boat."

"Peter, I . . ."

"Promise me." he insisted.

Mary Jane knew that if , God forbid, Peter were ever in a hopeless situation, he would want her to get to safety. Still, at this nascent stage of their relationship, the mere thought that she might have to go on without him was hard for her to deal with.

"I can't make a promise like that."

"You have to. If anything happens to me, I'll need to know that you'll be alright. Please, Mary Jane. Promise me."

His logic was inescapable. But she literally had to force the words out of her mouth. "Okay . . . I promise."

"Cross your heart?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," Peter said softly.

As Mary Jane laid her head on his chest, Peter stared up at the ceiling as that familiar, far-away look that she knew so well appeared in his eyes. "I can bench-press a truck," he began as he absentmindedly stroked her hair. "I can swing like a madman between skyscrapers, take out twenty guys at a clip, and dodge bullets. I might even win a Nobel Prize one day, who knows." He searched his memory for the words he had spoken so long ago, words which allowed Mary Jane to see for herself the depth of his feelings toward her. "But even now, when I look into your eyes, and you look into mine . . . I still feel . . .stronger, but weaker . . . excited, but terrified . . ."

M.J.'s lower lip quivered. Her eyes shined with moisture as she drew her face toward his.

Both the mood and the moment were back. It amazed Peter how profoundly a rendering of those words could still stir her heart.

She touched his forehead, as if anointing it with holy oil. "For nobility and humanity far beyond that of ordinary men, I dub thee, 'Sir Peter, Knight of the Bath, Seventeenth Earl of Parkershire, Member of the Most Holy Order of the Spider'." She was speaking as Cecily.

"Thank you, your majesty. But don't I get a suit of armor out of this deal?"

"You've already got a suit," she whispered as their lips melded together amid showers of imaginary sparks.

"Wow, honey," Peter said as their kiss broke. "One more like that and we'll probably electrocute ourselves."

"Sounds like fun," Mary Jane whispered as her hand drifted across his pectorals. "Would you like me to turn the jets on?"

"That would be nice."

She reached behind her back and pressed a red button on the wall. A low rumble permeated the air as the soapy water started frothing, replacing the bubbles that had already popped.

"This is fabulous, M.J." Peter whispered as he felt the pulsating water jets gently massage the still-tight muscles in his back.

"I see the periscope's up again." Mary Jane said playfully as her hand closed around the pipe sticking out of the churning water.

"Can't help it, Mary Jane. You're just too beautiful."

"Don't even try." She brought herself in close, wrapping her arm around his waist. "Tell me something, Tiger. Does your magic touch work under water?"

"Why don't you tell me?" he replied as he started to run his hands lightly over her chest and stomach.

Mary Jane's giggles, interspersed with moans, gave them the answer. The moans became louder and more frequent as her lover's fingers ran in circles around her torso, displacing the giggles altogether as those fingers slipped below her belly button. Their hips began to undulate as they massaged one other, the reciprocating motions of their bodies sending waves crashing over the side of the tub until they exploded together in a sea of roiling froth.

Afterwards, they reclined against the back of the tub, resting in each other's arms as a feeling of total peace settled over them. Mary Jane's soaking wet tresses draped across Peter's rock-like abdominals as she nestled against him.

" I'm sorry if I sound like a broken record when I tell you that I love you, Mary Jane."

"I hope that record stays broken, Tiger," she replied softly. "Are you in the mood for a whistle-wetter?"

"Sure."

Mary Jane opened the bottle of juice, filled their glasses, and handed Peter his.

"Um . . . what should we drink to, M.J?"

"How about just 'to us'?"

"To us," Peter repeated as they clanged their goblets together.

As Peter tilted his head back to partake of the tart soda, he caught sight of something on the ceiling, a little black dot scuttling rapidly across the white expanse.

"Look at that, Mary Jane."

"What?"

"Right there." He pointed at the corner nearest the door.

"Oh yeah, I see it." Mary Jane watched with quiet fascination as the arachnid detached itself from the ceiling and lowered itself toward the floor by means of an invisible gossamer thread. "A guardian angel?"

"Cousin Ernie," Peter deadpanned, once again sparking his fiancée's infectious giggle.

God, how he loved to make her laugh . . .

Arms and legs still entwined around each other, the two lovers continued to follow the spider with their eyes as it touched the floor and zipped out the door, presumably to escape from the semi-tropical hothouse in which it had suddenly found itself.

A few minutes later, they stepped out of the bath and wrapped a huge towel around themselves. When they finished drying off, Mary Jane turned on the light and blew out the candles while Peter wiped the bathroom floor dry, folded the towel, and hung it over the glass door of the shower stall, along with the top and bottom of his costume.

"Hey, M.J., I just realized something."

Mary Jane had picked up his mask, gloves, and boots laid them neatly on the vanity in the dressing area. "What's that, love?"

"I forgot to carry you over the threshold."

She wanted to tell him that they had to wait until after they were married. But before she could, he had swept her off her feet with one arm and deposited her on the bed. They let the remaining candles burn while they talked, laughed, and made love, tickling each other now and then. By the time the yellow-orange flame from last candle had vanished, they were asleep in each others' arms . . .

. . . blissfully unaware that their secret had already been compromised.


	28. Ticket to the Penthouse

**TWIN DEMONS**** by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

_**Cheers**_** was the name of a highly popular situation comedy on American television, which starred Ted Danson as Boston bartender Sam Malone, Shelley Long as Diane Chambers, and later, Kirstie Alley as Rebecca Howe.**

**Part of Eddie Brock's dialogue near the end of this chapter comes from, **_**The Origin of Spider-Man**_** episode from the 1967 series, in which Spider-Man confronts the robber who murdered his uncle Ben.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:**_** Spider-Man**_**, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Spider-Man 2**_**, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Daredevil - Director's Cut**_**, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and **_**Hulk**_**, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XXVIII**

**TICKET TO THE PENTHOUSE **

_O'Hern's Celtic Pub _was jam-packed with stockbrokers, investment bankers, and other assorted Wall Street types, as it was every Friday evening. Established in the late 1880s, it was the last of the old-time Irish taverns that serviced lower Manhattan. Its ancient brick walls were lined with portraits commemorating the sons and daughters of those brave souls who had fled the potato famines in search of a better life. Over two dozen major league baseball players from the Emerald Isle, including Jimmy Archer, Joe Cleary, and Patsy Donovan, graced one wall alone.

More than a few patrons affectionately regarded the place as New York's own _Cheers_. They would come in to unwind after long days in the trading pits, on the phones, or in front of their computer screens. Or, in the case of one Friday night regular, on the news beat.

"Two days," Eddie Brock grumbled as sat on his customary barstool, nursing a Heineken, his favorite import. He clutched his new Sanyo CG65 videocam tightly in his lap, treating it as if it were an extension of his person.

"How's it going, Ed?" It was Shari, the attractive brunette behind the bar who he sometimes used as a source.

"Lousy," Brock replied. "I lost two whole days on the biggest story of my career because of that gasbag."

Shari was looking particularly sharp in her white shirt and black tie, the required attire for servers at this century-old establishment. Eddie had often spouted off to her about the trials and tribulations of the journalism dodge, particularly the shortcomings of his colleagues, both inside and outside the _Daily Bugle_. And in Shari, he had found an attentive, curious listener.

"Let me guess," she said. "Joe Robertson."

"You got it, sis." The object of the smarmy reporter's ire was his immediate supervisor, the City Editor of the _Daily Bugle_. "I can't understand how the boss put up with that guy all these years."

From listening to Brock's colorful war stories over these last months, Shari was able to match names with personalities. But being the astute observer of human character that her craft had made her, she could not help wondering whether the _Bugle_ would have survived as long as it had without Mr. Robertson there to hold things together. She had long since pegged J. Jonah Jameson as sensation-peddler and Brock as his reflection, an ambitious corporate climber and butt-kisser. She had learned to take his barside gripes with a grain of salt. And yet, she actually looked forward to seeing him on Friday nights, knowing that a little entertainment and a few laughs would always be on tap.

At the same time, she was grateful that he was never of the mind to ask her out, though she conceded that he would probably be better company than her ex.

"If I can ask, Ed, what's this big story all about?"

Brock clammed up fast. As much as he liked her, he would never tip his hand to anyone about a major scoop, much less one of this magnitude. "Let's just say it's a Pulitzer-Prize winner and leave it at that."

"Oooookay," Shari replied, trying not to laugh. Even to a non-journalist like her, the thought of the _Daily Bugle_ winning a Pulitzer was hilarious, if not far-fetched. Shari was not even a twinkle in her mother's eye the last time the _Bugle_ won that most coveted of journalistic prizes. "Joe doesn't share your enthusiasm, I take it."

"That's about the size of it. Now, how about that chaser?"

"Coming up." In no time, a bottle of seltzer appeared in front of him, next to the almost-empty beer bottle. Being a man on the go all the time, Eddie was careful to limit himself to a single beer, always an imported brand like Heineken, Molson, or Kirin. Suffering from a phobia that even a single drink might dull his edge, he would always have a club soda or two right afterward.

And he never, ever, drank from a glass.

As Brock sipped his seltzer, his accumulated frustrations began to boil over as he mentally replayed the knock-down drag-outs he had been having with Robbie Robertson over the past two days. The morning after he witnessed that altercation between Peter Parker and Mary Jane _Slut_son, he had bought the videocam and was getting ready to put his onetime colleague under surveillance when Robertson called him on his cell phone and ordered him to cover the grand jury proceedings in the _Oscorp_ probe . . .

"_No can do. The boss has got me on a really big story."_

"_I'm your boss, Eddie. And right now, the last thing we need is a follow-up to your 'Spider-Man-in-cahoots-with-terrorists' piece. We got flooded with so many e-mails that our website had to be taken offline."_

"_Public's gotta know the truth, Joe, even if they don't want to hear it."_

"_Just get your ass over to that courthouse, Eddie. Right now!" _

Then the click— followed by silence.

His ears were still ringing from the dressing-down Robertson had given him. Much as he wanted to tell the City Editor where to stick it, he knew he could not. Brock may have been Jameson's star reporter, but in certain respects the Chief was very old-line. In disputes between subordinates, the one who was higher up on the seniority ladder was always in the right.

For over six hours, Brock had waited on the steps of the courthouse with the rest of the local media, constantly checking his watch, fuming silently at the possibility that he might lose his opportunity to catch Spider-Man in the presence of Mary Jane _Tart_son. And when the grand jury had announced its decision to drop the case, Eddie was furious. He had called Robertson again to tell him that the _Oscorp_ story had been a dud, but the City Editor simply told him to get back to the office and have the article on his desk in time for the evening edition.

Brock had briefly considered going back to that Watson broad's place, but decided against it, figuring that he would never be able to get a bead on Spider-Man unless Peter Parker were close by. He would have to call it a night and pick up Parker's trail first thing the next morning.

But no sooner had he woken up when Robertson had another assignment for him.

"I got a tip from one of my few remaining sources inside the Police Department," Robbie had informed him. "There's a major sting operation about to go down. I want you on it."

Against his better judgment, Brock had spent the entire day tailing a squad of narcotics detectives as they painstakingly lined up all their ducks for what would turn out to be one of the largest crack cocaine busts in the Big Apple's history.

As the hours, minutes, and seconds dwindled away on the police stakeout, Brock periodically glanced skyward, hoping that Spider-Man might show up. But the webslinger was nowhere to be seen.

In a truly rare suspension of Murphy's law, the bust itself had gone off exactly as planned, with nary a shot being fired. Still, Eddie had a considerable flair for producing an article with enough drama and suspense to make it a headliner, which was what justified the obnoxious reporter's paycheck and made it extremely difficult for Robbie Robertson to convince Mr. Jameson to fire him.

With ten minutes to go until the evening edition deadline, Brock had burst into the City Editor's office and handed him the hard copy.

"Don't bother," Brock brashly told his boss when he saw Robbie's red pen poised over the article's final sentence. "Mr. Jameson will just put it back in."

"This is straight news, Eddie," Robertson had snapped. "It's not an editorial. Mr. Jameson's been around long enough to know the difference. Make these corrections and get it back here in five minutes."

"Pompous bastard," Eddie hissed under his breath as he turned around and walked out of Robertson's office.

"What did you say, Eddie?"

"Nothing."

But the City Editor was not through with him, yet. "Oh, and in case you forgot, you're to leave Mary Jane Watson alone, period. Those are Mr. Jameson's orders, not mine."

"That's not what he said, Joe. He promised John he would not do anything that would jeopardize Miss Watson's career. He never said anything about keeping an eye on her now and then."

"You're obviously not listening to me, Eddie. Let me spell it out for you one more time. If you so much as get within a mile of Miss Watson, you're ass is history around here. Do I make myself clear?"

"Whatever you say, boss-man," Eddie tersely called out over his shoulder. He knew that Robertson was just uttering empty threats. The _Bugle_ wouldn't last a week without him, and that overweight windbag knew it.

Grumbling as was his habit, Brock had returned to his office, two floors below. The article was still on his desktop. He blocked off the sentence which Robertson had been about to strike: "The fact that the NYPD was able to plan and execute this operation without interference from Spider-Man was proof enough that this city has no need for costumed vigilantes."

Taking another look at the text before deleting it, Eddie noticed that the attribution clause he had intended to put in was missing. "He's right," Eddie realized as he quickly typed out the words, "According to a well-placed source within the department," at the start of the sentence and e-mailed Robbie the modified version of his article.

With the firewall between news and opinion once again restored, Brock was finally free to get back to _his_ top story.

But not before enjoying another Friday afternoon happy hour at_ O'Hern's_.

Or, in his case, a happy half-hour.

"Gotta go," Eddie told Shari brusquely as he slid off the barstool and dropped a ten-dollar bill into the oversized brandy snifter that served as a tip jar. He did not even bother looking at his watch. He could tell from the bright orange glow outside that the sun was beginning to go down.

"Have a good one, Ed," Shari called out. But Brock never heard her. He was already out the door.

At least he was a generous tipper.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

"Where the hell _is_ he, goddammit," Eddie muttered as he ran a check on his new videocam for the seventh time. He had been perched in front of a skid-row liquor store across from 8742 Carmine Street, waiting for Peter Parker to show his face while the sun was still up. But the once-and-probably-future photojournalist had neither entered nor exited the building during the last two hours.

Now that night had settled over the city, the logistics of trying to capture the webslinger and his red-haired squeeze on video had become extremely cumbersome. Without specialized equipment, a night shoot would be impossible to pull off.

His frustrations mounting once more, Eddie paced back and forth trying to figure out what to do next. As he ran yet another test shot under a street lamp, it occurred to him that Parker had never brought in any Spider-Man videos. _Probably can't afford a cam_, Brock thought. _If that's the case, then why not . . . Of course!_

It had suddenly dawned on Eddie Brock that he and his onetime associate had common interests. Why not team up with Parker, just as Jameson had originally intended? Parker could track the webslinger while Brock shot the video. Of course, Jameson would not be able to claim exclusive rights, and he would probably balk at having to collaborate with a competitor, but at least he would have something to show for it.

His heart pounding with excitement, Eddie made his way across the street, reasonably confident that Parker would go for his proposal. He had proven himself to be a bona fide hustler when he jumped into that taxi in an attempt to corner Spider-Man's whore.

He just hoped that Parker would be enough of a business man to put their rivalry behind him and see the benefits of mutual cooperation, at least on this one occasion.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

_Man, what a shit hole,_ Eddie thought as he stepped into the lobby of 8742 Carmine Street. The inside of this rundown apartment building looked as slummy as the outside. The stairs were rickety, the paint in the corridor and on the banister was peeling, and there was dust everywhere.

_No elevator_, Brock thought grimly as he trudged up the stairs. _While I'm at it, why not nail a slumlord for building code violations and do my good deed for the day_. He almost felt sorry for Peter Parker, thinking that if he were living under these conditions, he wouldn't hesitate to extract a few bucks from a sucker either.

"Let's see . . . 501." It was the first apartment to the right of the stairs on the top floor, opposite the common bathroom and the landlord's penthouse, if indeed it could be called that. The door was opened slightly and a faint light streamed through the open crack. Brock cautiously made his way over.

He knocked tentatively. "Parker?"

There was only silence.

_That's strange . . . he's out, but he leaves his door unlocked . . . well, not that he'd have anything worth stealing._

He pushed the door open just enough to peek inside. What he saw shocked him.

The apartment was not just clean. It was completely bare. The only telltale signs that someone had been in the room at all were the open French doors and a single, dimly lit bulb, devoid of any kind of fixture, hanging from the ceiling on partially exposed wiring, swinging slightly in the evening breeze. Other than that, it was as if no one had ever lived there. The room had been so thoroughly scrubbed that there was not even a speck of dust.

As a dumbfounded Eddie Brock stared at the Empire State Building off in the distance, he heard footsteps coming up behind him. He whirled around to confront a very thin, almost waif-like blonde with twin ponytails standing in the doorway, a _For Rent _sign in her hand. She jumped back, startled by the abruptness of his movement.

"Are you interested in the apartment, sir?" the girl squeaked. She had such a woebegone air about her that Eddie immediately thought of a mouse.

"I'm looking for a friend of mine, Peter Parker," Brock said carefully. "He told me he lives here."

"I'm afraid you just missed him," Ursula Ditkovitch replied. "He moved out last night."

Brock was stunned. But he was careful to keep his expression and body language neutral. As a seasoned reporter, he was accustomed to playing his cards close to the vest, letting down only to the extent necessary to obtain information.

Thinking fast, Eddie slapped the side of his head, as though jogging his memory. "Oh, that's right. Pete reminded me a few days ago that he was moving across town." He smiled deceptively, pretending to be fumbling around his pockets looking for a piece of paper. "You know, I wrote his address down and I thought I put it in my pocket, but for some reason, I can't seem to find it." He looked at Ursula a little sheepishly. "I figure it must've slipped my mind. By any chance, did he leave you with a forwarding address?"

Ursula shook her head, the sadness in her downcast eyes quite obvious.

Brock forced his face into a mask of sympathy, figuring that he might as well pump this girl for the dope on Parker's whereabouts.

"You like Peter, don't you?"

Ursula nodded.

"Did he ever ask you for a date?"

She shook her head, her mournful expression becoming more pronounced. "His girlfriend came by last Saturday," she practically whispered, turning away from him as if ashamed. "He must've moved in with her, I guess."

Brock was instantly alert. A girlfriend? Peter _Parker_? He would never have figured that in a million years, especially not if he was living in a dive like this. What girl could possibly stoop so low as to even want to hang out with that loser? "Wow," Eddie feigned. "Pete sure is full of surprises. I guess he was waiting to spring it on me. Any idea what she looks like?"

"Well, I only saw her once. Kind of tall with red hair and green eyes. Oh, and she was wearing a bridal gown. That I remember."

This time, Brock could not hide his reaction to the lightning bolt that had just struck him between the eyes. For a few seconds, he just stood there, dazed and immobile, like a deer caught in headlights.

Recovering,, he peeled a twenty out of his wallet and thrust it into Ursula's hand. "Thanks for the tip, Suzie."

To his surprise, Ursula refused the money. Her eyes narrowed and her demeanor turned ice cold. "You're not really Peter's friend, are you?"

"What difference does it make?" Brock sneered as he bolted down the shaky stairway. "He probably never liked you anyway."

He did not stick around long enough to see Ursula's eyes fill with tears at having her secret feelings for Peter being carted out and trampled upon so callously.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

_There's something dreadfully wrong with this picture_, Brock thought as he stalked out of the tenement and back into the night. He wandered aimlessly around Greenwich Village for a few blocks, trying to collect his thoughts. _Mary Jane Watson? _PeterParker's_ girlfriend? _Impossible! Why would a climber like her walk out on a rich stud like John Jameson and throw away the opportunity to live like a spoiled princess for the rest of her life? For what? A bum like Peter Parker? It made absolutely no sense, especially after she sent him packing with a slap across the face.

And yet, the spontaneity of that girl's answers made it crystal clear to Brock that she had told him the truth. He had been in the news business long enough to know whether someone was on the level, and she clearly was.

With growing fury, Eddie realized that Parker and Watson had taken him for a ride the other night. They were only pretending to be fighting to throw him off the trail. That slap must have been faked. What a fool he had been, falling for their ploy so easily.

_What the hell do I do now?_ he wondered. There was no Spider-Man-and-his-girlfriend story. Sure, Spider-Man had rescued Watson, maybe more than once. But he had rescued hundreds of other women as well, maybe thousands. The webslinger obviously had no special feelings toward her. It was all in Jameson's mind; he was always blaming Spider-Man for his misfortunes and setbacks. The truth is, it was Peter Parker all along, incredible though it seemed. He was the one who made Jonah Jameson look like a fool in front of the whole city. Anger suddenly gave way to grudging admiration at the way Parker had taken a page right out of _The Godfather_, quietly swallowing Jameson's abuse for months, waiting patiently for the right moment to deliver a knockout punch.

And boy, did he ever . . .

_The balls on that son-of-a-bitch_, Eddie thought. He remembered hearing about Jameson's vow to make life a living hell for Mary Jane Watson's boyfriend. _Let's see what happens to him when the Chief finds out_, he snickered. Eddie had no doubt he would still get that bonus, not to mention the eternal gratitude of the man he hoped to one day replace.

But first, he would need airtight, incontrovertible evidence to back him up. Without a video of the two of them together, Jameson would never believe him. And even with the video, he would still have to convince the Chief that he did not doctor it.

His sense of mission renewed, he headed back to Mary Jane's apartment building.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

Eleven o'clock, and still no sign of them.

Eddie had parked himself near the entrance to the subway across the street, the same spot where he saw them get out of the taxi in the rain. From this vantage point, he would have a clear view of the well-lit revolving door in front of him and the subway exit behind. He would have no trouble obtaining the video he needed.

But it was late. From his secret "escorts" over the course of Watson's relationship with John Jameson, he knew that she usually took her last curtain call just after ten o'clock, and had normally arrived home between ten thirty and ten forty-five. No doubt that Parker would pick her up at the theater and they would come back together.

But by the time eleven-fifteen had rolled around, they still had not appeared. At that point, Brock decided to go proactive. Spotting an all-night pizza joint in the same shopping center as the _Safeway_, he quickly went in and ordered a large cheese pizza to go.

"I'll give you twenty bucks to borrow your cap," he said to the proprietor.

"For that kind of money, you can keep it, mon," the man responded in a thick Jamaican accent.

Pizza in hand, he made his way across the street and passed through the revolving door.

"Hi," he said to the desk clerk. "I have a delivery for a Mary Jane Watson."

"You must be new," the desk clerk replied. "Hang on a minute. I'll let Miss Watson know her pizza's here."

"Thanks." He had no idea what he would do if Parker wasn't with her. But at least he would find out the best place to set up a stake-out operation.

"Excuse me sir, but could you tell me what apartment you're looking for?"

Brock immediately reverted to his lost-address trick. "That's funny, I had it in my pocket. At least I thought I did."

The desk clerk checked her computer screen. I'm sorry, but I don't see a Mary Jane Watson listed here."

"How can that be?" Brock asked, doing a convincing job of looking confused. "She just placed her order fifteen minutes ago.

Suddenly, the desk clerk recalled the reason Mary Jane's name had not appeared on the screen. "I just remembered. Miss Watson moved out this morning. Her apartment has already been leased to another tenant."

For the second time that night, a shocked Eddie Brock stomped out of a building, realizing that he had been foiled once again.

"What about your pizza?" the confused desk clerk called out.

"Enjoy it!" Brock told her as he pushed his way through the revolving door.

He threw his new cap on the ground out of sheer frustration as he watched his whole search turn into a debacle right before his eyes. It was too late to head back to the Lyric. She was probably gone by now, to wherever she and Parker had moved. He would have to find out where that was, and fast, even if it meant disobeying Jameson's prime directive.

By now, Brock was starting to become fatigued. He decided to call it a night and head for home. As he rode the subway back to his Midtown co-op, he thought about Spider-Man again. For the briefest instant, Brock had actually entertained the ridiculous thought that Parker himself was Spider-Man, a notion he had chased from his mind with a derisive laugh. _That scrawny little wimp? No way . . ._

Curiously, an image of Peter Parker putting on Spider-Man's costume kept nipping away at the outer edges of his mind.

_How can Peter Parker possibly be Spider-Man? For Christ's sake, he takes pictures of the guy._

He kept trying to dismiss those idiotic ideas, but they refused to stay dismissed. They bounced around inside his skull all through the ride, giving him a headache in the process. When he finally returned home, he slammed the door, popped a couple of aspirin, sat down in front of his computer, and entered the _Daily Bugle_'s intranet, where all of the newspaper's content was stored. As a senior reporter, Brock had access to everything, including the enormous collection of photographs that Peter Parker had taken of Spider-Man since he came aboard. They had all been scanned in and converted to a digital format.

_How in God's name could he have shot these?_ Brock asked himself as he scrutinized Parker's photographs. From the backgrounds, he could tell that none of them were taken from ground level. He had once heard Parker tell Robertson that he had to be creative in finding a good perch from which to shoot. Did he have some kind of signal system worked out with Spider-Man? And how could he have gotten out on all those high places without asking permission from the property owners?

As he scrolled through photo after photo, one that never made it into print caught his eye. It had an extremely curious feature, which became more apparent when he magnified it. The picture showed Spider-Man nailing a couple of carjackers. It appeared to have been taken from two stories above the ground. But there was a milky white line that bisected the photo. At first, Brock thought that the camera lens had cracked, but there was none of the jaggedness normally associated with broken glass. Even stranger still, upon further magnification, the line looked like a few very fine wires twisted together. If he did not know better, he could have sworn it was . . .

_Webbing? _

Was Parker's camera being held in place by . . . _webbing?_

_No, no, no, NO!"_ This time, Eddie felt as if a boulder had fallen on him. _Every single one of those shots had been rigged._

And it was Peter Parker himself who had rigged them.

Brock gasped as he poured over the implications of the impossible turning out to be true. For two years now, Peter Parker had been generating his own headlines. This had to be a far bigger fraud than the one committed by that _New York Times_ reporter who made up his own stories a few years back. Parker could be thrown in jail for this, if not sued into oblivion by all the people whose property he had damaged over the years.

He picked up the phone, intending to call Mr. Jameson at his home on Long Island. But as he started to dial the number, he realized that if he opened his mouth too soon, he would blow the deal of a lifetime. He was not about to let Jameson off the hook for a measly thousand dollars. What would Spider-Man's identity be worth? Fifty thousand? A million? A Pulitzer Prize perhaps?

As he set the phone down, reality had once again put the brakes on his plans. All he really had at this point was a suspicion and a few clues. What he really needed was proof as solid as the bedrock that anchored Manhattan's skyline. He would have to keep quiet, bide his time, and assemble his evidentiary edifice, brick by brick, regardless of how long it took. Only then would he be able to extract the maximum possible leverage from his serendipitous discovery.

As he was trying to sort things out, thoughts of Mary Jane Watson once again forced their way into his mind. _Oh my God!_ he realized. Jameson had been right all along. _There _is_ a Spider-Man's girlfriend story. _That bitch must have found out who he was just before her wedding, most likely when he had saved her from that juiced-up weirdo, Doc Ock.

Yes, it was Mary Jane Watson who held the keys to the kingdom. Finding her new address was no longer an option. Once he had that information, nailing her super-hero boyfriend would be a cakewalk. All he had to do was point his videocam at their window, wait for the right moment, and shoot.

And as for Robertson's restraining order, to hell with it. _To hell with both of them_, he grimaced, With the mother lode he was sitting on, all bets were off. He would not need to be in the good graces of Jolly Jonah Jameson or Joseph Robertson for very much longer. In fact, if the Chief could not come up with his asking price, he would simply sell his story to the highest bidder. There would be plenty of takers, he assured himself. He might even start his own publication.

He stepped out onto his terrace and stared up at the hazy night sky. "Parker, you son of a bitch," he murmured softly. "There's no goddamn place on Earth you can run to escape me. You're gonna write my ticket all the way to Trump's penthouse!"


	29. Epilogue: Sophisticated Excuses

**TWIN DEMONS**** by Georgia Kennedy**

**Author's Notes**

**The title of this chapter is a play on Betty Brant's wonderful story, **_**Excuses Excuses**_

**Photochromatic lenses automatically adjust their tint, depending upon the light.**

**For the benefit of those readers not familiar with New York City, "JFK" refers to John F. Kennedy International Airport.**

"**The Time Warp, © 1975, Music and lyrics written by Richard O'Brien.**

"**Dream of Me, © 2001, Written by Marc Shaiman and Scott Wittman, Performed by Kirsten Dunst.**

**Disclaimer**

**This is a derivative work of fiction featuring characters copyrighted and trademarked by Marvel Characters, Inc. It is based upon:**_** Spider-Man**_**, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Spider-Man 2**_**, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Daredevil - Director's Cut**_**, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved; and **_**Hulk**_**, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, all rights reserved. The author is not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Characters, Inc., or any of the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on Fanfiction, for the benefit and enjoyment of its intended audience. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the author as a result of said posting. Any unauthorized copying or redistribution of this work might subject the party responsible for such unauthorized copying or redistribution to legal action by the owners of the aforementioned copyrights and trademarks.**

**XXIX**

**EPILOGUE: SOPHISTICATED EXCUSES**

Standing in front of the Lyric Theater's stage door on an unseasonably warm October night, Louise Wood, Reed Diamond, and Mary Jane Watson were mobbed by a huge throng of autograph seekers. They had just taken their final curtain call on what had been an amazingly successful run. For months they had played to a sold-out house, pulling the theater out of red ink, to the everlasting gratitude of its owners, Bobby and Paulie Ferlazzo.

But, like all good things,_ The Importance of Being Earnest _had come to an end. A new production would shortly grace the Lyric's stage, and _Earnest's _cast and crew, which had grown as close as a family, would soon disperse. Some, including Louise, Reed, and Mary Jane, would find new gigs while others would find new lines of work.

The cast members remained in costume, at the request of the Ferlazzo brothers. To show their appreciation for a job well done, Bobby and Paulie had sprung for a Halloween party at _Park's Jazz and Karaoke Club_. Everyone who was involved with the production, along with spouses, significant others, and friends would be treated to, as Bobby Ferlazzo had promised, "the mother of all cast parties." Even Waldo, the notoriously officious usher, had been invited.

"So, where is he?" Louise inquired as the three leads worked the line of theatergoers, still clad in their Victorian-era garb.

"Yes," Reed echoed in the midst of signing three playbills. "I do hope that we'll finally have a chance to meet that mysterious gentleman friend of yours." In real life, his accent and mannerisms were not too different from those of the character he had portrayed

"Well, he said he'd be waiting around after the show." Mary Jane stole a glance over the nearly one-hundred faces in front of her, wondering if he was milling around on the sidewalk somewhere. Peter did have a tendency to blend into the background. He once kidded her that it was his chief survival mechanism before he got his spider-powers.

It still was, especially when he wanted to rendezvous with his girlfriend without showing up on Eddie Brock's radar.

Louise gave her friend a skeptical look. "You sure he's coming?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because, every time we were supposed to double-date, he'd bug out at the last minute. I'm starting to get a complex."

"Don't," Mary Jane reassured her. "It's just the nature of his business. He has to be on call all the time." She looked around again. "By the way, where's Larry? I thought you left him a ticket."

"I did." Louise sighed. "But he's still in L.A. He got bumped from his flight at the last minute and stuck on a red-eye. I'll be meeting him at JFK tomorrow morning."

"Awww. He'll miss the party."

"Yeah, well . . . at least I'll get to spend a few days with him." Her lack of enthusiasm was quite noticeable.

The crowd eventually dwindled down until there were only two people left, a matronly type in a flamboyant orange pantsuit and a quiet young man dressed completely in black. Sporting a mustache, he was wearing a billed cap, wire-framed glasses, a sport coat with narrow lapels, and a collarless dress shirt with all the buttons closed. Over his shoulder, he carried a fully loaded camera bag.

_Must be a tourist_, Louise thought, _or maybe a secret agent_.

Even though the middle-aged woman was standing behind him, the man in black let her go. He waited until she had obtained signatures from all three players before approaching Reed.

"_Grazie_," the man said as Reed signed his playbill. "_Magnifico, Signore_."

"Glad you enjoyed it," Reed replied with a warm smile. Satisfied that there would be no more autograph seekers that evening, he excused himself and went back inside the theater to use the men's room, leaving the two actresses alone with the mysterious-looking foreigner.

The man turned to Louise next. The pretty brunette noticed his piercing blue eyes right away. "Are you Italian?" she inquired, recognizing his language.

"_Sì, Contessa_," the dark stranger said in a soft, slightly raspy voice.

"Hear that, Mary Jane? Countess?"

"I heard." Mary Jane acknowledged the foreigner's presence with a broad smile. "He obviously recognizes nobility."

"Of course." Louise continued with her bilingual flirt. "I'm Italian, too. Well, only half . . . my mom's side." She gave the stranger a closer look. "You know, you remind me of a young Robert DeNiro behind those glasses. What's your name?"

The man looked as if he had gotten lost in translation. "_Eh . . . nome_?"

"Yes," Louise answered. "Sì."

"_Mi chiamo . . . my name . . . Pietro. Pietro Voláre_."

"I'm Louise."

Pietro bowed and kissed the back of her hand in the old-world's traditional greeting of respect.

"Oh I _like_ him," Louise giggled.

She heard a barely perceptible cough from Mary Jane, which she could have sworn sounded like laughter being suppressed.

"So, do you have a sweetheart back in Italy, Pietro?" Louise asked as she signed his playbill, next to her picture.

Looking a tad flustered, Pietro pulled a small English-to-Italian dictionary out of his pocket. "_Eh, my English notta so good_," he apologized as he hurriedly thumbed through the pages. "_Come si dice 'sweetheart'_?"

"What's so funny, Mary Jane?"

"Uh . . . Nothing. I've got a tickle in my throat, that's all."

Louise went back to her conversation with Pietro. "Girlfriend. Um . . . amóre."

"_Ah sì, amóre_." Pietro replied with a grin. "_Capisco adesso. Si chiama . . . Mari Juana!_"

Mary Jane's eyes went wide. She suddenly reached over and grabbed Pietro by his lapels. "Marijuana, huh? Well, here's _my_ autograph, Mister Voláre."

And then she kissed him, right on the lips.

A shocked Louise stood there gaping as Mary Jane and the dapper-looking Italian shared a full, deep, and passionate french-kiss in front of the stage door. "M.J., what are you doing?" she gasped. "For Christ's sake, you're engaged. MARY JANE!"

Cecily Cardew broke the kiss as she and the delicately handsome young man turned toward the flabbergasted Gwendolyn Fairfax. He was chuckling. Mary Jane was laughing. "Louise, this is Peter Parker, my fiancé," she said after her mirth had subsided.

Louise stared at Peter in utter surprise. "You mean, you're not Italian?"

Peter shook his head, smiling. "Someone once said that there are two kinds of people in the world: Italians, and those who wished they were." He held out his hand. "Nice to finally meet you, Louise."

It took Louise a few more seconds to realize that the joke was on her. "Okay, you got me," she said with a good-natured laugh. "That was one terrific performance you just put on, with the accent, the dictionary, everything. You really nailed it."

Peter pointed to his fiancée. "She made me do it."

Mary Jane poked him lightly on the back of his head, dislodging his cap. But in a surprisingly fast reflex action, he caught the cap before it could fall off and put it back into place.

"Actually, he got me, too," M.J. observed.

"What?" Peter protested in mock indignation. "Mari Juana's your name, isn't it?"

Mary Jane put a hand on his face and affectionately squeezed his cheek between her thumb and forefinger. "We'll discuss that when we get home tonight. Okay, Tiger?"

"Uh oh," Peter grinned. "I'm in big trouble now."

"Banish him to the tower for a week, Mary Jane," Louise playfully urged. She had been to their apartment a few times while Peter was away, and had re-christened the loft.

"Nah," Mary Jane replied. "I wouldn't last that long without him."

They kissed again.

"Um . . . maybe we should get going," Louise suggested, gesturing toward the row of taxis lined up beneath the Lyric's marquee.

Reed, meanwhile, had rejoined his cast mates and who he thought was the Italian autograph hound as they climbed into the nearest cab.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked.

"Lafayette and Broadway," Louise directed.

"Reed, this is my boyfriend, Piet . . . excuse me, Peter." Mary Jane said, introducing her male lead to her leading man as the taxi pulled away from the curb. "Peter, this is Reed, Cecily's boyfriend."

"Ciao," Reed said as he shook Peter's hand. "Do you like America?"

"Sure. I've lived here all my life."

"Uh, Reed, these guys played a trick on us," Louise explained to her slightly mystified co-star. "It was just a put on."

"Well, it _is_ a costume party and he definitely looks the part," Reed replied. "Are you an actor?"

"Not enough to get paid," Peter remarked wryly. _But enough to keep the bad guys off balance_.

"Where'd you learn to speak Italian?" Louise inquired, amazed at Peter's apparent facility with the language.

"Professor Florentina Braccio, New York University. She's a real stickler for accents."

"I got the idea when I came home and heard Peter reciting his homework." Mary Jane confessed. "But he's the one who'd actually came up with the name."

"Voláre is one of my aunt's favorite songs," Peter explained. "I used to hear it all the time while I was growing up. She kept a whole collection of those big black vinyl discs. Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra, she had them all."

"Well I think Voláre sounds rather suave and sophisticated," Reed chimed in.

"And very sexy," Louise added. "It kind of makes you think of some rich Italian playboy who's about to whisk you off to his villa on the Adriatic." There was a hint of wistfulness in her voice.

"By the way," Peter added. "You guys were all fabulous in the play."

"Thanks." Louise paused for a moment. "Were you in the audience?"

"I saw the show about six months ago, back when you could still get a ticket."

For the rest of the trip, Peter and Mary Jane held hands and gazed into each other's eyes. But every now and then, they would look out the windows, as if to see whether anyone was following them. The anxious looks on their faces during those moments did not escape Louise's notice.

**XXXXXXXXXX**

The party was already underway by the time they arrived at _Park's_. Bobby Ferlazzo stood at the door, giving everyone handshakes, hugs and high-fives as they strode by.

"Peter," a familiar voice called out as he, Mary Jane, and Louise made their way over to an empty table near the window.

"Mr. Nelson?" Peter was delightfully surprised to see one of his bosses at the party. As the attorney for the Ferlazzo Brothers, Foggy Nelson had earned his special guest status by persuading the Lyric's creditors to hold off on the foreclosure long enough for _Earnest_ to gain some traction. It did, and the play's sustained success resulted in the creditors being paid off months ahead of schedule.

Peter did not bother asking where his other boss was. He knew that Matt Murdock could not take the noise in nightclubs and bars.

Unlike Foggy, however, he knew the reason why.

"Is that Peter Parker?" a female guest called out.

The voice belonged to Liz Allen. She had her hand on Foggy's back, in an obviously affectionate gesture.

"Hi Liz," Despite all of the changes to her appearance, Peter was able to recognize her right away. "It's good to see you again."

"Wow, what's happened to you?" Liz asked. "You look so . . . so . . . cool."

Peter took it as a compliment. "So do you."

"Why, thank you. I hear you're working for Franklin and Matt."

"Damn straight, Liz," Foggy interrupted characteristically, grabbing Peter's hand and pumping it up and down effusively. "This guy helped get three innocent men off death row. Sliced their expert witnesses to ribbons with his DNA testimony. They never had a chance."

As bosses, Matthew Murdock and Franklin Nelson were no less demanding than J. Jonah, Jameson. In fact, they were much more so. Unlike Jameson, however, they treated him like a fellow professional, with dignity and respect. While Matt was naturally reserved, the gregarious Foggy never hesitated to heap verbal accolades upon Peter for the quality of his work.

Peter blushed slightly. "Thanks, Mr. Nelson, for giving me a chance to prove myself."

"I have to admit, I had my doubts. But Matt sure was right on this one."

"By the way, Peter, how come you're here?" Liz inquired. Her tone was neither sarcastic nor mean-spirited, just curious.

"I'm engaged to one of the cast members."

Before Liz could ask who it was, Mary Jane had glided up to Peter and slid her arm around his shoulder. "Hey Liz. Franklin, how are you?"

Liz's jaw dropped to the floor, her expression as readable as an open book — _that's who you dumped that astronaut for?_ Mary Jane and Peter grinned at each other as though they were laughing privately at some inside joke.

"Good evening, everyone," Paulie Ferlazzo announced from the center of the dance floor. "Thank you all for a magnificent ride. You were all on top of your game, and I'm so proud to have been associated with this production. Tomorrow, another day dawns and we will all go our separate ways. But tonight, let's celebrate. The bar's open and so is the karaoke line."

Peter mingled, snapped pictures, and danced with Mary Jane as amateur recording artists sang tunes from a collection dating back fifty years. Some singers were okay, most were good, and a few had real musical talent. Foggy Nelson kept coming back by popular demand. He was quite the song and dance man, having a broad vocal range and being incredibly light on his feet, despite his portliness.

"Come on, Pete," Foggy urged. "How about taking a turn up here."

Peter politely declined. "I can make a frog sound like Justin Timberlake."

At midnight, the deejay handed his microphone to Reed. "Ladies and gentlemen," the impromptu emcee announced. "Welcome to the Lyric Theater Company's production of _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_. Can we keep control or will madness take its toll?"

"Get your camera ready, Pete," Mary Jane called out as she and Louise joined their cast mates on the dance floor.

"Direct from the planet Transylvania, we bring you — the _Time Warp_!" Reed intoned.

With Foggy leading the way in the role of Riff Raff, the Igorish-looking handyman, the company broke into a rendition of the 1970s cult classic. Louise brought down the house with her spot-on interpretation of Magenta, the vampire-like maid. And Reed, standing on a table, was hilarious as the criminologist-turned-dance-teacher. But it was Mary Jane who stole the show as Columbia, the tap-dancing, squeaky-voiced, red-haired groupie.

As for Peter, he whooped and hollered with the rest of the guests in the Rocky Horror tradition of audience participation while squeezing off photos in rapid-fire sequences.

"I got one I'd like to do," Louise said as the _Time Warp _ended. She filled out a slip of paper and handed it to the deejay. A few numbers later, she delivered an emotion-filled rendition of Faith Hill's angst-ridden, _Cry_, a song about a woman confronting betrayal by a long-time lover.

"Wow, Louise, that was incredible," Mary Jane said as her co-star returned to their table amid sustained applause. "Let's get you on American Idol."

"There's a lot of real life, there," Louise replied, her expression still a little forlorn. A second later, she lit up again. "But we're here to have a good time, right? Why don't you do one, Mary Jane?"

"Well, I . . . I'm really not that good."

"Sure you are, M.J.," Peter said, echoing Louise's sentiments. "You sing great when we're in the shower."

"Peter!"

"I'm serious, Mary Jane. You should do it."

Mary Jane started to think it over. As much as she loved it when Peter showered her with praise, she sometimes wondered whether he was capable of distinguishing a good performance from a bad one.

"You really don't think I'll make a fool of myself?" she asked tentatively.

"Absolutely not," Peter said confidently. His baby blues were a powerful means of persuasion. "Now, get up there and blow 'em away."

Louise nodded enthusiastically.

"Okay, I'll do it," Mary Jane agreed. "But if I get voted off, I'm gonna take it out on both of your hides." She sauntered up to the deejay and handed him her request.

When the disk jockey signaled for her to go, Mary Jane picked up the microphone. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to dedicate this number to the man I love, the man who gave me my life back more times than I can remember, the man who inspired me to be more than I ever thought I could be. The truth is, if it weren't for him, I wouldn't even be standing here. This song is called, _Dream of Me_."

On cue, the house lights were dimmed and a single spotlight shone on Mary Jane as she began to sing.

_Let me sleep  
For when I sleep  
I dream that you are here  
You're mine  
And all my fears are left behind_ . . .

Everyone fell silent as the silvery lyrics gently floated across the room. And as Mary Jane locked eyes with Peter, she felt as though everyone and everything around them had just disappeared and the two of them were alone, sailing together on a sea of stars.

_And sleep  
Perchance to dream  
So I can see the face I long to touch  
To kiss . . ._

Sitting next to Peter, Louise observed a tear running down his cheek. She smiled, no longer suffering guilt pangs about the advice she had given Mary Jane in connection with her previous relationship. The glow in M.J.'s eyes as she serenaded her amóre was a vindication of sorts. True, Peter did not have John Jameson's family wealth, glamorous profession, or movie-star looks. But there was something magnetic about him, a quiet confidence that made even Louise feel safe in his presence. She sensed that there was far more to this man than what was on the surface.

Mary Jane certainly thought so. Not once did she ever sing for her former beau, much less give him the looks she was giving Peter now. The expressions on their faces attested to the depth of their love for one another, a love expressed so eloquently in song . . .

_So let the moon  
Shine softly on the boy I long to see  
And maybe when he dreams  
He'll dream of me . . ._

As happy as Louise was for M.J., she had to keep shoving those momentary, but annoyingly persistent feelings of envy back into the recesses of her psyche. She wished she could follow her own advice and stop attracting the wrong kind of guy. She hoped that things would be different with Larry, but was not optimistic.

_Maybe Peter can figure out a way to clone himself_, she mused.

The sudden chirping of a cell phone made her jump.

But it was not hers.

"Um . . . Peter . . ."

Peter did not answer. He was still mesmerized by his silver-throated fiancée.

Louise tapped him on the shoulder, snapping him out of his reverie. "Your phone's ringing."

"Oh . . . thank you." As Peter answered his phone, Louise watched as the joy in his expression gave way to anxiety, and then to grim determination. "Hang on a second," he said as he looked around the table.

"Do you have a pen?" he asked Louise.

She quickly furnished Peter with a pencil and a napkin from the next table, watching with mounting curiosity as he scribbled down an address while sandwiching the phone between his shoulder and his ear to keep in place. "I'm on it."

Peter snapped his phone shut. "That was my editor," he told Louise briskly. "There's a breaking story that he wants me to cover. Would you tell Mary Jane to go home without me, please?"

Before Louise could even open her mouth to say yes, he was gone.

_  
Oooohhh  
Dream of me_

As she drew her song to a close, Mary Jane mouthed the words, "I love you, Tiger," and took a bow to a standing ovation and demands for an encore.

By the time she looked up again, Peter was nowhere to be seen.

As she made her way back to the table, Mary Jane's first thought was that he had gone to the men's room. But when she saw the stunned look on Louise's face, she had a sinking feeling that he would not be back.

"Your boyfriend just bolted," Louise confirmed. "Here one minute, gone the next."

"Did he say anything about where he was going?"

"He said his editor told him to get on some big story."

That answer told Mary Jane two things — that Matt Murdock had contacted Peter, and that Spider-Man and Daredevil would be seeing action that night. It was part of a code they had worked out to let M.J. know whenever trouble was brewing. She was amazed at how well their system was working; Peter had just used the unsuspecting Louise as his messenger.

In the six months since they had moved in together, Mary Jane had become quite adept at learning how to anticipate and prevent trouble instead of just reacting to it. She had been paying taxi drivers a small fortune to lose Eddie Brock in traffic on her way home. At Peter's insistence, she was taking a self-defense class for women, taught by Matt and his new girlfriend, Jean DeWolff , in the basement of the Church of the Holy Innocents. She had even bought Peter a pair of photochromatic shades that looked just like prescription glasses, so that people would think he had bad eyesight and be disinclined to connect him with Spider-Man.

But these elaborate security measures did little to quell Mary Jane's worries, which overwhelmed her at times. She was well aware of the constant dangers they had to face, not the least of which was Peter's cover being blown. She sometimes longed to return to the days when she did not know his secret. In her estimation, it was far easier to be angry with Peter than to be afraid for him.

"You're a better person than me," Louise was saying as Mary Jane stared out the window. "I'd be pretty livid if my boyfriend told me to get home by myself."

Mary Jane continued to gaze at the midnight sky, hearing her friend, but not listening. She wondered how Jean was dealing with all this. _Did Matt even tell her_? she asked herself, imagining that one day, Jean would come to her for advice on how to handle the ups and downs of having a super-hero for a significant other.

On the other hand, Jean was a prosecutor, and who knew how she would react if she ever found out that her boyfriend was half of the infamous Twin Demons. That moniker was a present, courtesy of the _Daily Bugle_.

And it was not complimentary.

_At least Jameson finally acknowledged Daredevil's existence_ . . .

"Hello. Earth to Mary Jane."

"Huh . . . oh, right . . . sorry, Louise," M.J. answered with a sigh. "I suppose we'll read about what happened in the morning papers."

**XXXXXXXXXX**

True to Mary Jane's prediction, a story did appear in the next day's _New York Times_ about a raid on an apartment in Greenwich Village, a mere three blocks from where she used to live. The police had been tipped off about an illegal weapons smuggling operation. When they arrived at the scene, they had found two crates of military assault rifles and fifteen gang members bound to the floor and walls with webbing.

But the story was not on the front page, nor had it been covered by any of the networks. It was buried somewhere in the _Times's_ metro section. According to an officer who had taken statements, Spider-Man had been singing a tune from _The Rocky Horror Picture Show_ as he and Daredevil were pounding the hoods into submission. The officer joked that the webslinger's dreadful crooning had facilitated a quick surrender.

**CLOSING CREDITS**

**The **_**Twin Demons **_**saga will continue in a sequel tentatively entitled, **_**Return of Tribbleyard**_**. The new story will also be based on **_**Spider-Man**__**Spider-Man 2, Daredevil - Director's Cut **_**and **_**Hulk**_**, but will be in an alternative universe from **_**Spider-Man 3**_**. However, teasers and trailers will be posted to **_**Twin Demons**_**, so you might want to leave this story on your alert lists. PG-13 versions of **_**Twin Demons **_**will appear on the **_**Fanlib**_** and **_**Marvel Fan Fiction**_** websites.**

**My deepest and humblest thanks go to Betty Brant and HTBThomas for their outstanding contributions to this story as my beta readers.**

**I would also like to thank the rest of my brain trust, Jenn 1 and Mark C, whose pointed suggestions and words of encouragement helped get me over some tough humps over these last two years.**

**Thank you to every one who was kind enough to leave a review, in particular, those who left constructive criticisms. I want you all to know that I took every one of those reviews seriously, even going so far as to make changes based on your suggestions.**

**Finally, I would like to thank every single person who took the time to read **_**Twin Demons.**_** You've given a novice author the hope and confidence to go on.**


	30. Tribbleyard's Gift Teaser 1

**TRIBBLEYARD'S GIFT**

**by HTBThomas & Georgia Kennedy**

**Disclaimer**

**This story is a work of fiction based upon: **_**Spider-Man **_**, copyright 2002 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Spider-Man 2**_**, copyright 2004 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Spider-Man 3**_**, copyright 2007 by Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc., all rights reserved; **_**Hulk**_**, copyright 2003 by Universal Studios, Inc., all rights reserved; and **_**Daredevil - Director's Cut**_**, copyright 2004 by Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, Inc., all rights reserved. The authors are not connected with nor is this work authorized by Marvel Enterprises, or the aforementioned motion picture studios. This work is intended solely for posting on fanfiction websites, for the benefit and enjoyment of their intended audiences. No commercial or financial benefit accrues or is intended to accrue to the authors as a result of said posting. **

**TEASER (1)**

Dear Mary and Richard,

I hope you don't think I'm being too presumptuous in calling you by your first names, but in listening to Aunt May's stories and reading all of those letters that Peter had written to you while he was growing up, I feel as though I've really gotten to know you very well. As you are probably aware, Peter and I are getting married next Friday. That day can't get here soon enough.

I cannot find the words to express the love I have for your son. Wherever you are, I hope you can see for yourselves the wonderful man that Peter has grown into. He has become urbane, poised, and polished. And he works so hard, almost like a slave. Whether he's helping to get an innocent man's conviction overturned, recommending what biotech companies to invest in, or taking photographs of baby gorillas for National Geographic, he can't help but impress people with his knowledge, work ethic and dedication. Even now, I'm amazed that he could get a masters degree while managing all those consulting and photography jobs, to say nothing of his other responsibilities, which I'm sure you know about.

And yet, through it all, he somehow finds time for us, even if it's only an hour or two every couple of days. If things aren't going right, career-wise, if I've had an off-night on stage or a bad audition, he'll always be there with a hug and a kiss, and sometimes a bouquet of flowers or a home-cooked, microwaveable dinner. And if I'm still in the dumps, he'll take me on a swing through the city. Watching the sun go down from the roof of the Met Life Building usually does it for me.

But what I love most about being with Peter are those times when his "inner nerd" manages to slip through. The truth is, I was always crazy about that side of him. Just the other day, we rode the Harley Davidson up to Palisades Cliffs in New Jersey, right after my show. We were lying in a web, high up in the treetops, gazing at the stars, and he starts going into this long-winded explanation about how gravity bends starlight or something. After listening to this lecture for five minutes, I had to tell him to shut up and kiss me. I'll never admit it to him, but his big brain turns me on as much as that other big part of him which shall remain nameless.

I do have a confession to make, though. This isn't easy, so please bear with me. I'm trying very, very hard, not to worry about Peter's other life. Don't get me wrong. I knew what I was getting into the moment I broke off my engagement to John Jameson. Peter was given great power, and with that power comes great responsibility. I'm okay with that. And now, he has a partner who can watch his back, and that's great, too. Since Peter and Matt Murdock started working together, violent crime has gone way, way down. It's like the crooks are all afraid; they'll never know where the Twin Demons will strike next. That's what the _Daily Bugle_ calls them, not me. But, in all honesty, whenever that police radio goes off, I feel like I've been hit with a hammer. I can't tell you how many times I thought about unplugging it. Sometimes, I get so overwhelmed by the thought that Peter might never come home again that I can't even think coherently. Can you imagine us trying to buy life insurance?

Don't worry. I'll never tell him that. He's got enough on his mind already, and I certainly don't want to make him feel guilty about doing what he has to do. I just wish I had someone to talk to about all this. Even Aunt May, God bless her dear soul, is not a spouse. There are things about our relationship that not even she can understand, but I'll always give her kudos for trying. Maybe this is a little selfish of me, but I wish that Matt and Peter would let Jean DeWolff in on their little secrets, so that at least I could have somebody to commiserate with. Heck, we could form the world's first support group for superheroes' significant others.

You know, it's funny. When Spider-Man saved me at the World Unity Festival, I thought I was in the arms of a god. And when we shared that incredible, indescribable kiss on that rainy night in the alley, it made him seem all the more real. But as soon as we became a couple, that crush I had on Spider-Man vanished. Peter used to kid around that I could marry him and have an affair with Spider-Man without ever feeling guilty. But that's not the way it really is. It's more like Spider-Man's just an act, like one of my characters on stage. I feel nothing for Spider-Man now. He just isn't real to me anymore. And yet, he's a hero to millions. Does that make any sense?

Still, I can't help wondering what's going to happen with Spider-Man when Peter starts medical school. Peter called Dr. Connors to tell him that he got the fat envelope from Columbia University. Dr. Connors invited us to celebrate at N.Y.U.'s faculty dining room. During dinner, I asked Dr. Connors what medical school would be like. He put his arm around Peter's shoulder and said, "Mary Jane, my advice to you two is to have as much sex as you can before Peter's white coat ceremony, because, after that, you probably won't see him again until Christmas." And I'm sitting there thinking, how can Peter possibly reconcile being Spider-Man with the twenty-four-seven demands of medical school? Something's got to give, sooner or later.

There is another situation you ought to know about. Peter still hasn't chosen a best man, and I'm not even sure he will. I think he's holding out hope that Harry Osborn will come around and accept the truth about what happened to his father, so that we can all be friends again. He misses Harry terribly, and so do I. But it's a very touchy situation. The shock of finding out that his father was the Green Goblin had caused Harry to suffer a complete mental breakdown. He spent a week or two in a psychiatric ward, but has since recovered. From what I've heard, both he and his company are doing very well. He doesn't return our phone calls or answer our e-mails, but at least he's been keeping his mouth shut about Peter. Maybe that's the best we can hope for.

Oh, one more thing. It's really minor, but it's sort of been on my mind. Last month, we finally found out where Emma Rose is sending us for our honeymoon. Peter did not seem very happy about it. I think he had his heart set on the Empress Lorelei cruise. Anyway, he started having these weird dreams. Nothing like those waking nightmares he used to have, thank goodness. But he'd be twisting around in bed, sweating. A couple of times, he was even sleeptalking. He kept repeating one word over and over again. It sounded like "Tribbleyard." I have absolutely no idea what it means. It sounded French, so we tried looking it up in a French dictionary, but we couldn't find anything.

Sorry. I don't mean to sound like a spoil-sport. I'm sure it's nothing. Anyway, I can't think of anything else I'd like to say, except that I'm the luckiest girl in the world to be your daughter-in-law.

Love,

Mary Jane.


End file.
